


As History Foretold

by nagi_schwarz



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: John Sheppard separates from service and is at loose ends and finds himself on a genealogical road trip with his brother Dave, tracing the family roots in Scotland.And then things get a bit...strange.OR: the McShep/Outlander fusion that no one asked for.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 123
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



> I'll update the tags as I go, because who wants spoilers?
> 
> When this is done, it should fulfill the time travel and historical war challenges for the What If AU Challenge.

_ You can’t just quit your job _ , Dave had said, aghast, when John showed up on his doorstep wearing jeans and a sweater and combat boots, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. It was still dusty from the sands of Afghanistan and had  _ Sheppard J P _ stenciled on the side of it.

John hadn’t just quit his job - he’d turned his own life upside down. From the moment he got his acceptance letter to Stanford, he’d known what he wanted to do: fly. So he signed up for ROTC when he was eighteen and a freshman, and he went for it. He flew. Anything and everything he could get his hands on, but mostly choppers. If he wanted to fly, the Air Force had to want to keep him, so he fought to be the best at everything they assigned him to.

They assigned him to pararescue, and the secrecy of it all tore his marriage to shreds, but he still had flying, so he kept on.

They assigned him to a war zone, and he lost two of his best friends, but he still had flying, so he kept on.

And then he lost his third best friend, Holland, in a desperate bid to save him, and they’d taken his wings.

So he’d resigned. Put his letter of resignation and his dog tags on his CO’s desk and hitched a ride on the first transport back stateside. Showed up on Dave’s door to beg a place to stay till he found his feet.

As it turned out, the rest of the world wasn’t much interested in an ex-chopper pilot with medic training and a degree in topological combinatorics. All it took was one unfortunate moment when Dave surprised John in the kitchen and John pulled a knife on him for Dave to realize that John had done much more than simply quit his job, and Dave made a plan.

He was a Sheppard. It was what they did.

John had planned to be a pilot. He hadn’t planned for anything after that.

Dad started making noise about John joining the family business. He didn’t have to ride a desk, be a corporate rainmaker like Dave if he didn’t want to. He could work in R&D, use his hard-earned math degree.

John had planned to be a pilot as part of his bigger plan to avoid ever being the Perfect Son for Patrick Sheppard.

_ Think about it _ , Dad had said.  _ Talk to Dave. Listen to what he has to say _ .

Dad’s  _ think about it _ met Dave’s planning, and that was how John ended up in the passenger seat of Jaguar convertible, rolling through the Scottish countryside while Dave waxed poetic about the Sheppard family’s rich heritage.

“William Sheppard, our great-grandfather about five generations back, was a captain of the Dragoons, stationed up here in Scotland. By all accounts he acquitted himself well, especially at the Battle of Culloden where, unfortunately, he died.” Dave glanced at John. “Dad always wondered where the soldier in you came from. He never bothered to look, not like I did.”

“Mom’s family was Scottish. Campbell, right?” One thing John had never been able to explain to people who’d never left America was how other countries didn’t just look different - they  _ felt _ different. And it wasn’t just the temperature or humidity or the way the air felt in his lungs when he inhaled. It was something else, something John couldn’t put a name to. He’d been stationed at Nellis in the desert, and the desert in Afghanistan looked nothing like it. Dust, hot sun, sand, flatness. But not the same. Not even similar.

“That they were. There were Campbells on the Mayflower,” Dave said. He nudged John. “You should pick up a Campbell tartan set. Ladies love a man in a kilt.”

John snorted. “Yeah, right. You’re so funny. No wonder all the girls at school loved you.”

“They only loved me because they couldn’t have you. Heartbreaker.” But Dave laughed.

John wasn’t a heartbreaker. He was just - oblivious, sometimes. To when other people were attracted to him. It was why it had taken him forever to notice Nancy, who’d sat beside him in his political science class, American history class, and French class freshman year of college. It was why it had taken him forever to realize their marriage was done for, years later.

“Well, neither of us needs to be breaking hearts now. You have Kathleen, and I have - numbers.”

“Not just numbers,” Dave said. “Science. Cutting-edge tech. We could revolutionize the world with a breakthrough in renewable energy.”

John cast him a look. “You sound like you swallowed one of the Sheppard Industries investment brochures.”

“Fine, fine.” Dave was silent for a moment. Then he pointed. “See that hill up there? The one shaped like a rooster tail? That pass was one English soldiers used to ambush Scottish rebels.”

John studied it. Beneath the rolling green grass and thick purple heather, he could see why the English had chosen it. It was a natural choke point, plus natural high ground advantage for the English lying in wait.

In officer training school, John had studied extensive military history, but mostly it was conflicts America had been involved in. Of course most of his studies had been focused on conflicts involving aerial combat, so he knew every major conflict from the Great War onward well. He knew the big aerial battles inside and out. As part of his pararescue training, he’d studied conflicts involving deployment of special forces, complex rescues, and the history of battlefield medics. As a pilot, John had studied the history of aviation, the evolution of aircraft, and the mechanics of flight.

For a hobby, he’d studied the evolution of medicine, from its origins in superstition, archaic treatments involving leeches and maggots, and effective natural remedies. A medic never knew when he’d be cut off from supply lines and forced to rely on local flora to keep his men and women healthy and alive.

For all that John had studied in pursuit of his career, he’d never been the historian that Dave was. Because Dave was a good and faithful Sheppard Man, he’d gone to Harvard and majored in business, minored in history, and gone on to earn his JD MBA so he could one day helm Sheppard Utilities. His true passion, however, was history. He’d focused on Scottish history because of their mother, who was proud of her Scottish heritage. Amelia Campbell was descended from Samuel Campbell, who had sailed to the New World on the Mayflower and settled in Virginia. Samuel Campbell’s sons had cut their teeth in the Scottish Rebellion before returning to the Colonies to fight in the American Revolution. Of course Patrick Sheppard was proud of his English heritage. One of his ancestors had fought on the other side of the Scottish Rebellion, and Dave, in an act of filial piety, was doing research on the man’s military exploits in the Highlands. 

Dave’s destination today was Culloden Moor. He parked at the visitors’ center, and together they fumbled through paying for parking. Rather than go through the visitors’ center itself, Dave headed straight to the moor. 

“The Scottish rebels were feeling pretty confident in the wake of their previous victories,” Dave explained. 

The moor was peaceful, tall grass swaying in a breeze, the ground dotted with the first buds of purple heather. 

Dave swept a hand out to encompass the entire moor. “It was disastrous for the Scottish. English cannons cut them down, and a bayonet charge took care of the rest. Two thousand men in less than ten minutes. Dead.”

John sucked in a breath. Dave sometimes forgot John had been a soldier. He’d seen the damage firepower could do, the horror of artillery. But he’d never been in mass-scale close-range engagement like that. 

The field was dotted with small stone markers. They bore clan names, the names of those who’d fallen. MacKenzie. Campbell. Beckett. McKay. Maxwell. Lorne. Mitchell. McDonald. Each of those markers were for men who’d fallen.

“It wasn’t just the end of the Scottish Rebellion,” Dave said. “The Battle of Culloden also marked the end of the Highland way of life.”

John had wondered more than once what he and his fellow airmen were destroying in the sands of Afghanistan. Once he had ridden herd on some butterbar lieutenants who wanted to sneak off base and spy on some women dancing. They’d been hoping for some super sexy bellydance show, ladies in skimpy outfits shaking it and slinking across the sand. Instead they’d hunkered down behind some rocks and watched the women shed their veils, smile and laugh, clap and drum and do folk dances with each other. The silent, black-clad ghosts who averted their gazes and slid for the shadows whenever John and an American patrol stepped into a populated area were alive beneath their veils. They smiled and joked, teased each other and chased each other. 

The butterbars gave up pretty quickly, disappointed. John had herded them away, sick with guilt. There were some things best left alone, best left to thrive on their own. But in the end, war killed everything. 

“Has much of Highland culture been preserved?” John asked. 

“Not enough,” Dave said, with the same wistfulness Mom had in her voice whenever she spoke of Scotland.

They walked the length and breadth of the moor. With the peaceful blue skies and gentle colors, John could understand why moors figured in a lot of romances. The gold-green of the swaying grass, the pure white of the clouds - they would seem like the idyllic backdrop for a blossoming romance. But John could easily imagine how, in the early morning, in the cold and damp, with the fog rolling across the moor, the vivid red of British uniforms stark splashes of colour in the mist, the moor would feel like death. John had imagined his own death more times than he could count. He glanced at Dave, whose expression was solemn and distant, and wondered if he’d ever seen his own death. When a man was about a die, his whole life didn’t flash in front of him. Instead he saw all of the life he could have lived. 

“They didn’t stand a chance,” Dave said quietly. “Only the officers had any combat experience, earned as part of the Highland Regiment in the wars against France. Most of the soldiers were peasant volunteers with no discipline, visions of charging into battle painted blue and armed only with dirks, just skin and plaid to their names.”

John said, quietly, “It’s true. Insurgent forces are most effective when they're well-trained.”

Dave cast him a sidelong look. “You’d know.”

John’s reminder of his own combat experience seemed to have broken whatever contemplative mood Dave was in. Together they headed back to the car, shoulder to shoulder, discussing their plans for the evening. Dave was friends with an amateur historian of some renown who lived locally, had intended to call on him, but he didn’t know if the man was free. If the man wasn’t free, John and Dave could have supper together at a pub. Otherwise - 

“I can fend for myself,” John promised. “I am a capable adult.”

“Are you sure?” Dave asked, and at John’s raised eyebrow, he amended, “Are you sure you don’t mind having supper on your own?”

“I really don’t mind,” John said. “That’s part of the Armed Forces I don’t miss - a guy could never get a minute to himself. You booked us a room at a really nice B&B. It’s fine.”

Dave looked anxious.

“I really appreciate that we’re taking this brother bonding vacation together, but I won’t wither away in misery if we’re apart for one night.” John injected enough dryness into his tone that some of Dave's anxiety visibly eased. 

John drove back into Inverness while Dave called his friend Daniel to see if he was free for the evening. He had the call on speaker so John could hear. To John’s vast surprise, Daniel was American. He was delighted that Dave was in town, and he’d found some information about their ancestor William Wolverton Sheppard that Dave would find very enlightening. Unfortunately, he had a prior engagement and was in Edinburgh on business. Daniel would be back in town by tomorrow evening, and he’d be glad to have Dave over for supper. 

“I’m actually here with my brother,” Dave said. 

John waited for the awkward ‘oh’, the obligatory pity invitation, but instead Daniel said, “The one who’s in the Air Force?” 

“John just retired, actually,” Dave said. 

Daniel said, “That’s great! So did Jack. They can entertain each other with zoomie talk while we discuss weighty matters of history.”

Dave looked very relieved. “Great! Give me a time and address and red or white, and we’ll be there.”

“Will do. See you tomorrow.” Daniel sounded like a bright, friendly guy.

“Thanks! Tomorrow.” Dave hung up. “So, pub it is.”

They parked at the B&B, grabbed jackets to stave off the autumn chill, and headed into town on foot. 

Sheppard men were, of a necessity, possessed of a fair amount of charm. Given that Dave was married, it fell to John to flash his smile at a lovely, wide-eyed woman and ask her which pub served the best supper. The woman smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave them directions to the Bonny Prince Charlie.

John was polite enough to make some light conversation - two brothers tracing their family roots, Scottish on one side, English on the other, stories converging here around Inverness but not quite meeting till the New world. The woman, Beth, worked for a real estate agent. Should either man choose to settle here she could help them find a charming place for a good price. 

John accepted her business card - he was still too much a Sheppard to ever completely disregard a potential connection - and he and Dave made their farewells, and then off to the Bonny Prince Charlie they went. 

John had been stationed in England once and knew how pubs worked. There was one pub near the base that had enough of a USAF presence that any servicemen and women could call themselves regulars there, so long as a more experienced serviceman introduced any new ones to the barman. John played up the tourist card this time, accepted menus and a booth in a secluded corner.

Dave went all out, ordered the Haggis and a little glass of scotch and all the fixings. John kept it simple, ordered a little beef pie with some mashed potatoes and vegetables, sipped at a warm beer that Dave wrinkled his nose at.

“How can you drink that?”

“When in Rome,” John said, and sipped some more. “We can share a dessert, if you like.”

It was something their mother had always said, when they were children and out at a fancy restaurant. If both boys were almost full but wanted a dessert, she’d always offer to share one with them - and let them have pretty much all of it.

“Let’s see if I have room after this,” Dave said, gesturing with his fork. “You know, I always wondered why Mom was so proud of her Scottish heritage even though she never lived here, but - it’s beautiful. And the people are nice.”

“Dad thought she was a little crazy, with her Scottish pride.”

“He did get pretty peeved when she tried to get us to wear kilts one time.” Dave nodded ruefully. Their father was still a bit of a touchy subject between them. “But he let us learn about her side as much as his.” He arched an eyebrow. “You still know all the songs?”

“I do still know all the songs.”

Dave started to grin. “And you brought your guitar.”

“That I did.”

“You know what this means.” Dave waggled his eyebrows.

And John couldn’t help it - he laughed. “I know what this means.”

Family sing-along, it meant. Mom had played the piano, and she’d taught them all manner of songs to sing, especially traditional Scottish songs. Dave could play the piano passably, had gone along with lessons for a few years before Mom gave up. John had preferred the guitar and stuck with it, because he could take it with him.

They ended up sharing a large glass dish of cranachan, because John liked raspberries and Dave liked cream, and after they ambled through the town, looking at the night sky. They headed up to their room at the B&B, which was a bit stuffy, and Dave threw open the windows while John found his guitar and tuned it.

“Do we want some booze while we sing?” Dave asked. “Pretty sure I saw a place open on the way back here from the pub.”

John blinked, because family sing-alongs had never been a drinking thing. Granted, they’d stopped having family sing-alongs long before either of them were old enough to drink. But then he thought of all the songs he knew, and he said, “Sure.”

“Some whiskey in the jar?” Dave asked, grinning like a fool, like he hadn’t since they were teenagers.

John fished in his wallet for some cash. “Scotch. The good kind.”

Dave nodded. “You’re on.” And he ducked out of the room.

John plopped down on the window seat, tuning his guitar. It was the only guitar he’d ever had, one he’d bought himself with money he’d earned tutoring math to other boys at his boarding school. He’d bought it at a pawn shop in town and spent hours and hours learning to play and dreaming of flying. And learning the songs his mother had taught him.

Once he had it tuned, he tested a couple of chords, and he began to sing.

_ By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes _ _  
_ _ Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond _ _  
_ _ Where me and my true love were ever wont to be _ _  
_ _ On the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond _

If John closed his eyes, he could imagine his mother at the piano, playing along with him, her sweet clear voice twining with his. Of course, she’d never sung with him, not when his voice had reached its full adult timber.

_ Oh you take the high road and I’ll take the low road _ _  
_ _ And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye _ _  
_ _ But me and my true love will never meet again _ _  
_ _ On the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond _

John’s eyes flew open. Someone was whistling along with his song.

He leaned out the window, peered into the darkness, but the street below the window was empty.

“Dave?” he called out.

There was no response.

And then John saw, just beyond the glow of a streetlamp, movement in the shadows.

Old battle fear lurched in John’s chest, and he tensed, reaching for the sidearm that wasn’t there.

But the figure who stepped out of the shadows and into the lamplight resolved itself into a man. A highlander, in full highland gear, kilt and tam. John made out broad shoulders and curls bleached pale gold in the street light, and he had the sense that the man was  _ looking _ at him.

John cleared his throat. “Hello?”

And then Dave called out, “What?”

He stepped out of the shadows and bumped right into the man, stumbled.

“Oh, sorry, I -” Dave began.

The man spun away, pushed past Dave and into the shadows.

John expected an indignant  _ hey! _ from Dave, but instead Dave let out a little cry. He stared into the shadows after the man for a moment, and then bolted into the house. John heard his footsteps thundering up the stairs.

The door burst open, and Dave stood in the doorway, pale and out of breath.

“Everything all right?” John asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I did.” Dave blinked rapidly. Then he turned, murmured some apologies to other guests he’d disturbed, and pulled the door shut behind him.

“A ghost?” John echoed.

Dave crossed the room. “That highlander, down in the street. I didn’t see him until I was right on top of him, and then, when he pushed past me, I should have felt his warmth, but there was -  _ nothing.” _

“Was it cold out there?”

“Freezing.” Dave shivered.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” John said gently.

“Mom always believed in - things.”

Fairies, ghosts, magic. Folklore and mythology. All of it. John shrugged. “I don’t know if she believed so much as she wanted to believe. Wanted us to believe.”

Dave sank down on the window seat beside John, opened the bottle of scotch. “It was harmless.”

“That it was.” John accepted the bottle, took the first sip, handed it back to Dave, and then strummed an opening chord.

“Everyone thinks the song about Loch Lomond is a love song,” Dave said. He sipped some of the scotch, set the bottle on the windowsill. “It’s actually about the Scottish Rebellion.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Not one mention of war or battle in it.”

“You ever wonder about the whole high road, low road thing?”

John remembered the history vaguely. “High road - highway. King’s road. Toll road. Wide enough for the royal carriage. Maintained. Highwaymen liked to target them for supplies. Rich travelers and noblemen. Low roads were - old footpaths turned into roads over time. Less maintenance. Mostly foot traffic.”

“After the Battle of Culloden, Scottish Rebels were executed. Peasants drafted were allowed to walk back to Scotland on the low roads. Officers and volunteers were executed. Bodies displayed along the high road. Or taken back to Scotland in boxes along the high road.”

“Which is why the guy on the low road gets back to Scotland first.” John nodded.

“Another thing British soldiers did was if they knew two soldiers were friends, they’d tell them to choose - who lived and who died.”

John huffed. “And Dad’s proud to be descended from these people?”

“There are skeletons in every closet,” Dave said. “Sometimes the Scots would kill each other for bounties, for reward. For fun. The Black Watch roamed the hills, meting out their own justice. They were -”

“Thugs, mafiosos?”

“Some of them.” Dave nodded. He gestured to the guitar. “Remember all the words?”

“That I do. Want me to start at the beginning?”

“Can you still hit the countertenor notes?”

John arched an eyebrow, and Dave laughed. 

“Fine. We’ll pitch it down an octave.”

John started to strum, and together they began to sing. They played through almost their mother’s entire Scottish catalogue, laughing and drinking, reminiscing about their mother and all the times they’d sung with her, the things she’d taught them. Eventually they ran out of songs and alcohol, and it was time to sleep. Dave barely managed to brush his teeth before he fell onto his bed and started to snore.

John put his guitar away, brushed his teeth, stripped down, and crawled into bed. He fell asleep, music floating in his mind, and thought of the shadowy figure beneath the streetlight. Something about the man had seemed familiar.

* * *

The next day, they went to visit Castle Leoch. Dave’s fondness for castles was much greater than John’s, but apparently the castle had been a seat for a local powerful clan, the Mitchells, and they’d fought alongside the Campbells at the Battle of Culloden, and John wasn’t completely uninterested in history. They walked the dark, damp, drafty stone hallways with uneven floors, the staircases worn smooth in the middle from generations upon generations of footsteps. There were many visitors to the castle, and they ended up tagging along in the rear of what they thought was a tour group but was instead a family with a daughter who was a Scottish history aficionado.

She wandered along, talking about the history of the family and the castle, describing the functions of each room and what daily life would have looked like in the mid-eighteenth century.

“This room here, given the size and furniture, likely belonged to an upper-ranked member of the family, although not part of the immediate family, because their living quarters are in a more secure area of the castle - and their quarters have a bigger fireplace. If any important guests came, chances are the family member would be shuffled into another room for the duration of the guest’s stay.”

“You know,” the girl’s mother said, “it’s a wonder your head doesn’t explode, with all the trivia you have crammed in there.”

“You spent a fortune on private schools for me,” the girl drawled. “Just giving you your money’s worth.”

The girl’s mother cast John and Dave knowing looks when they trailed after the family, down the hall to the main living quarters, but she didn’t say anything. The girl described the kitchen - the fireplace where the main cooking pot hung, the ovens, the pantries. She explained about all the different staff who’d work in the kitchens, and John wandered around, peeking into the ovens and into the fireplace, running a hand over a wooden countertop gone dark and smooth with age.

The girl’s older sister, less of a history aficionado, looked bored, but she found a staircase beside a window that led downward.

“What does this lead to? The dungeon?”

“No,” the girl said. “The dungeon’s close to the barracks, because the men who man the barracks double as guards. No, Castle Leoch had its own in-house charmer, and the charmer was given his own space to work.”

“What’s a charmer?” the sister asked.

“Combination healer and shaman,” the girl said, her voice echoing oddly as she descended the steps. “They knew all the local lore about fairies and magic and the like, and also basic herb lore, some of it accurate, some of it not, for healing. A really good charmer would also know famous ballads.”

John and Dave followed the family down the narrow stairs - John hunched his shoulders reflexively - into the damp, dark room with a single tiny cellar window. There were shelves carved into one wall. Though the room was dark, it was spacious.

“There’d probably be a large worktable, where the charmer would assemble her poultices and potions and charms, and also room for a couple of cots, one for serious patients, one for the charmer herself,” the girl explained.

There were cobwebs high in the corners.

“Were charmers always women?” Dave asked.

The girl blinked at him, surprised, and John hid a smile, but then the girl plowed ahead. “Not necessarily, no, but the majority were, since charmers were always common suspects in witchcraft trials, and two-thirds of all those tried and executed for witchcraft were women.”

After that, Dave and John stuck closer to the family on their tour. The mother whispered to Dave while the girl delivered a lecture on the typical number of men-at-arms in the castle at the barracks. The girl talked about family loyalties, clan structure, and how the men-at-arms would be high-ranking in the clan, trained warriors, and most likely bearing the clan name. The mother proudly told Dave all about her little girl, straight-A student all through school, full-ride scholarship to university. She was going to become a mathematician.

Dave whispered back, “My brother was a math major in college. Joined the Air Force, though.”

The woman eyed John. “He does have that zoomie air. My first husband was an Air Force pilot.”

John wore an innocent expression when the woman met his gaze, but after the tour was done he thanked the girl for sharing her knowledge, congratulated her parents on a daughter well-taught, and he and Dave made their farewells.

They headed back into Inverness for lunch and to find a bottle of good white wine to take to Daniel’s house, and then they lounged around their room, taking turns in the shower to clean up for a nice dinner.

* * *

Daniel Jackson lived in a modest house only a few streets away from the B&B in Inverness. When he greeted them at the door it was with a hug for Dave and an enthusiastic handshake for John. John wasn’t sure what to expect in a man who was a dedicated historian and had become an expatriate to pursue his passion, but it wasn’t the man who took their coats in the foyer and thanked Dave effusively for the wine. Daniel Jackson was of a height with John, had bright blue eyes and high cheekbones, a lush pink mouth and broad shoulders, a muscular chest and strong arms.

“How do you two know each other?” John asked as he followed them into the study. 

“I was a civilian consultant for the Air Force,” Daniel said. “Linguist, archaeologist - they’re always digging up artifacts over there in the sands.” He gestured vaguely to encompass the desert war zone John knew all too well. “Dave was visiting a little oil operation and needed some linguistic assistance and I helped out, and once the crisis was done we got to talking and discovered a mutual passion. History.” He opened the wine to let it breathe. 

“How many languages do you speak?” John asked, following Daniel and Dave back to the kitchen to set the wine somewhere safe.

“Speak? Twenty-seven. But that’s not counting dead languages. I know about a dozen beyond those that are only written.” Daniel set the wine on one of the counters. 

John glanced at Dave, who nodded. It was true.

Daniel led them back to the study. “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes, or so Jack tells me. In the meantime, Dave, I found something you might want to see.” He opened a wooden box that was full of old, old papers. He handled them with practiced care. Dave accepted them reverently, with a care John usually saw only for his children. 

“These are receipts and bills of lading for Captain William Wolverton Sheppard for supplies at Fort William where he was stationed with a garrison of His Majesty’s Dragoons. Black Bill, they called him.” Dave cast John an apologetic look.

John shrugged. “He’s my ancestor, too.”

Another man - older, silver-haired, but handsome all the same - poked his head into the den. “Hey, Danny-boy, dinner’s on in fifteen.” He straightened up. “Our guests are here. Why didn’t you say? I was starting to feel terribly unloved.”

Daniel looked up, smiled at the man, and John knew that kind of smile. Nancy had smiled at him like that, once upon a time.

“Sorry, Jack. It’s just -”

“I know how you get when history’s involved.” Jack’s smile in return was brief but fond.

“Jack, you remember Dave Sheppard, don’t you?”

Jack and Dave nodded at each other.

Daniel continued, “This is his brother John. Gentlemen, this is Jack O’Neill.”

John straightened up. He recognized the name. “General O’Neill?”

“Retired,” he enunciated deliberately. “You in?”

“Just resigned my commission. Major,” John said. “You’re a legend, sir.” His head spun. Jack O’Neill was more than a legend - he was practically a myth. Combat fighter pilot. Black ops. Spec ops. Paratrooper. 

“Just a man,” Jack assured him. He tilted his head, eyeing John quizzically. “Let me guess - rotor?”

"Yeah. Pararescue.” John swallowed hard. 

Jack nodded, understanding in his eyes. He clapped John on the shoulder. “C’mon out back. I have the grill running. Could use a hand.”

John nodded. “Sure.”

Jack flashed Daniel another grin. “We got the fire and the food. You boys enjoy your ancient history.”

“Not that ancient,” Daniel corrected absently. He leaned in, kissed Jack briefly on the mouth, and returned to his conversation with Dave.

Dave didn’t even blink at the open affection, just asked Daniel about a letter. John followed Jack through the house to the back patio and garden. The garden was deep green grass, chamomiles and chrysanthemums in little glass greenhouses, a generous herb garden and a large wooden shed serving as a workshop. Wicker patio furniture was covered with trays, plates, and other cooking implements.

The grill was closed but Jack opened it, turned over several chicken breasts. 

“Thanks for not freaking out about me and Daniel,” Jack said, tone mild.

John shrugged. “Would be a bit hypocritical of me.”

“That why you gave up your oak leaves?”

John shook his head. 

“How long have you been out?” 

“Two months, three days. Dave wanted to do a family bonding thing. We’re on our first bro vacation since college.”

Jack nodded and turned over an aluminium foil pouch that was on the grill with the chicken. “Academy?”

“ROTC out of Stanford.” 

“Impressive.”

“Sheppard tradition is Harvard.”

“Like your brother?”

“Yeah. Didn’t realize Daniel and Dave were such good friends.”

“It’s good for Daniel to have civilian friends. He is still friends with the rest of our team, but-” 

“But.” John nodded. 

“Got a plan now that you’re out?” Jack turned the chicken again. 

“Dave is trying to con me into joining the family business.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Riding a desk?”

John handed Jack a tray when he gestured. “R&D, maybe.”

“How?”

“Masters, topological combinatorics.”

Jack deftly maneuvered the foil packet onto the tray with a pair of tongs. “Ah. Aeronautical engineering.”

They exchanged knowing looks. Sometimes, in the Armed Forces, with the boots on the ground, it was safer to play a little dumb. People looked at John - at his hair, at his flight helmet, at his wry smile, and assumed he was an adrenaline junkie.

“What about you?” John asked. “What are you doing now that you’re out?” 

“Tinkering with engines. Watching the stars. Spending time with Daniel. Trying to convince him to let me get a dog.” 

“A dog,” John echoed thoughtfully. “I’m lousy at commitment. Maybe a cat.”

Jack shrugged. “Not a cat person. A cat would knock over Daniel's artefacts. He’s pretty precious about those artefacts. Let’s tray up.” 

Between the two of them, they managed to get grilled chicken, grilled vegetables, and little dessert pastry pockets onto trays and carried everything into the house. The dining table was already set, and Daniel and Dave helped them get everything onto the table. John fetched the wine from the kitchen, and Daniel raised a toast - to friendship and passion.

“So, what have you learned about our illustrious ancestor, Black Bill Sheppard?” 

“He was a bit of a rogue and a rebel,” Dave said. “Wonder who inherited that trait?”

John shrugged and smiled innocently. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“We suspect,” Daniel said, “that Black Bill had a powerful patron. The Duke of Sandringham, perhaps?”

Dave tried the chicken. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jack said, without a trace of wryness. 

Dave cleared his throat. “I thought the Duke Sandringham was a suspected Jacobite.”

Daniel shook his head. “No. I mean, he wasn’t a particularly dedicated Jacobite, he was a political opportunist. And he liked the French, and the Sun King, as a Catholic, was something of a Jacobite supporter.”

“He was queer,” Jack added. 

Daniel rolled his eyes. “There were rumors.”

“He was unmarried. ’S why he liked the French,” Jack continued. “The French were more fun.”

“This from the man who hates the French and was married once,” Daniel drawled.

“I like when you speak French.” Jack waggled his eyebrows. 

Daniel pursed his lips, unamused, but the furrow between his brows smoothed away when Jack patted his hand gently.

“Black Bill died at the Battle of Culloden, didn’t he?” John asked.

Dave nodded. “Yes. Wounded on the battlefield. Wound became infected in the chaos, he went untreated.”

“Do we know who killed him?” John glanced at Daniel, who shook his head. 

“Records aren’t very clear,” Daniel said. “Stabbed or shot by a Scottish officer, but that is a single report from a single wounded, traumatized English soldier.”

“The irony of Culloden is that up to that point, the English artillery was pretty dismal,” Jack said. “Granted, a good chunk of the Highland charge was screwed over by terrain - boggy ground.”

“Didn't realize you were so passionate about history too,” John said. 

Jack shrugged. “Usually I’m not. Some of my ancestors fought at Culloden, though. The Irish Picquets. Plus I’m just generally interested in military history.” 

Dave hadn’t been kidding. The food was delicious. John offered Jack his compliments on the man’s grilling skills. Daniel complimented Dave on his wine selection. 

“The English got canny after multiple battles,” Jack continued. “They started defending Highland charges by angling their bayonets so they aimed at the man on the left instead of straight on.”

John winced. “Ouch. But smart.”

“Why?” Dave asked. 

“Get around the shields,” John said. 

Dave winced. Daniel looked grim. Jack and John warmed to the discussion of the battle of Culloden, debating how available arms affected outcomes. Both sides had ample firearms, but the Scottish had fewer weapons for in-close fighting, like swords.

“It’s a shame,” Daniel said. “An entire way of life almost completely destroyed. A culture, a people, a language. Because the English had better artillery.”

“Which they hadn’t had up to that point,” Dave pointed out. “I wonder if that made the defeat worse - they were so confident going in.”

Daniel nodded. “The higher they are, the harder they fall.” 

Jack set his napkin aside. “What do you think, John?”

John blinked. “About -?”

“The Battle of Culloden. How would you have won if you’d commanded the Highland forces?”

John realized everyone was looking at him. “Me? I was never a general. Not sure I can think that big.”

“Give it a shot,” Dave said.

John resisted the urge to snap to attention under Jack’s piercing gage. “Well - I’d need to understand the battle. The land and troops and resources, period tactics.”

Jack stood up. “Daniel’s got a model in his office. Come on.” 

“We’ve got the dishes, since you cooked,” Daniel said. “Go. Have fun. We’ll be in after for our bills of lading.”

John followed Jack into the study, unable to shake the feeling that this was a test. On a table in the corner was a detailed tableau of Culloden, the kind of miniature topographical display John associated with geology studies - or intense Dungeons & Dragons games. The hundreds of miniature soldiers, cannons, and horses arranged on the terrain board really were like D&D. 

Jack leaned on the edge of the table. “So, Major John Sheppard, retired, how would you, General John Insert Scottish Clan Name Here, win the battle of Culloden?” He gave John a rundown of troop numbers, troop types, available weapons, troop training and terrain. That he could hold all that in his brain told John that he’d been a formidable general in his time, aside from his individual exploits. 

John took a deep breath. And went for it. For every suggestion he had, Jack had a counter. Terrain was too boggy. Not enough cavalry. Not enough men. Not enough weapons to challenge dragoon blades. That would have been dishonorable - no general would have authorized it. Finally John threw his hands up. 

“So basically victory at Culloden on April 16, 1746, was impossible.”

“Yes,” Jack said, “when we consider it in isolation from all the previous battles in the Jacobite movement, and also all the contextual geopolitical movements.” Jack made a face. “That was why I retired. Politics.”

John took a deep breath. “So...tell me about the rest.”

“I can do that,” Dave said. He and Daniel were standing in the doorway.

“You know what’s more fun?” Jack asked, catching Daniel’s eye and lighting up. “The magic wand game.”

Daniel looked pained. “Jack -” 

“Major John Sheppard, with your superior knowledge of modern warfare, design your Highland dream team to win the battle of Culloden.”

Daniel threw his hands up. “History’s lost on you two. Highlanders winning Culloden would not have saved the Highland way of life, nor would it have guaranteed a Stuart taking the throne.”

Jack plowed ahead. “But if it had been the linchpin -”

“Then England and France would have been allies and we’d all be British,” Daniel said.

“Not true!”

“Sounds like you’ve discussed this a lot,” Dave broke in, and there it was, the law training, being a mediator. But he’d also often been the mediator between John and their father.

“We have,” Daniel said sourly.

“You know you love it,” Jack replied. 

“You mean I love you.” Daniel submitted to a kiss from Jack.

John missed that kind of easy affection with, well, anyone.

“We have a treat for you,” Jack said, straightening up.

“A treat?” Dave echoed, startled. “Oh no, you didn’t have to -” 

“It’s a once-in-a lifetime event,” Jack said. “Autumnal equinox is tomorrow, and it happens to be coinciding with a solar flare.”

John was confused by the very sudden change in conversation topic, but Dave said, “That’s right. Daniel told me you’re an amateur astronomer.”

Jack nodded. “There’s a set of standing stones outside of Inverness. The way they’re aligned, the sunrise falls specially on the center stone during equinoxes. Daniel and I were planning on taking my telescope out there before sun-up to get a good look at the stars and moon and sky and then watch the sunrise. You’re welcome to join us.”

“I made a picnic basket for all four of us,” Daniel said.

Dave cast John a questioning look. 

Once in a lifetime. John knew how short and fragile a human life could be. “If it’s not too much of an imposition -”

“It’s really not,” Daniel said. 

“Sure,” John said. “It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a good sunrise.”

“It’s a really amazing experience,” Daniel said softly. 

“Thank you,” Dave said, “for including us.”

Daniel patted him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

They finished the wine and arranged a time to meet at the  _ Rionnag Geata _ stone circle on a hill outside of the city. They said their farewells, and John and Dave headed back to the B&B. Dave drove while John gazed out the window, pondering on the last time he’d watched a sunrise.

On the desert sands of Afghanistan, Lyle Holland’s body cooling in his arms.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d  _ enjoyed _ a sunrise.

Dave cleared his throat. “So - Jack and Daniel. You didn’t seem - bothered.”

“You think I’m a bigot?”

“No, but given that you served -”

“I’m impressed, really,” John said. “That he managed to sustain a relationship with Daniel in spite of his career.”

“Impressed,” Dave echoed.

“And maybe a little jealous.”

“Oh?  _ Oh. _ So you and Nancy -”

“I’m bi. The problem wasn’t her body.”

Dave sucked in a breath. “You never told me.”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” John drawled. “Also - Dad.”

“Right. Dad.” Dave winced. He darted a glance at John. “Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re my family,” John said.

“Family.”

* * *

John still had the ability to wake right when he had to, even without an alarm. He prodded Dave awake and showered fast, brushed his teeth, pulled on a pair of cargo pants, a polo shirt, and his leather jacket. Since they were going out into the wild, he packed into a small satchel his flint and tinder, a compass, survival knife, paracord, a small folded map, some water purification tablets, a folded survival foil blanket, some power bars, his emergency med kit (duct tape, gauze, non-toxic super glue, bandages, anti-diarrheals, painkillers), a miniature toothbrush, some hand sanitizer, a flashlight, a whistle, a small signal mirror and -

He paused. He was being damn paranoid. His training still held. But he couldn’t carry his gun. Only they were taking the car, and they’d have a picnic, and it was just a nice night out, and besides, Jack O’Neill was more badass than the other three of them combined.

John slung the satchel across his chest and, as an afterthought, grabbed his guitar case. 

Dave had barely stumbled out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist when John was all ready to go. He blinked at John a few times dazedly.

“What’s with all the -?” Dave gestured at John’s satchel and guitar case.

“Figured I’d contribute however I could,” John said, hefting the guitar case and making no mention of the satchel.

“Fair enough.” Dave tugged on some clean clothes. He scrubbed at his eyes, blinking tiredly. He’d never been a morning person. 

John hadn’t been a morning person till he’d joined the Air Force.

Dave scrubbed at his eyes again and said, “You’re driving.”

John nodded and scooped up the keys. 

Driving through an unfamiliar place in the dark was always a surreal experience - like traveling through a whole different world. But he found the hill outside the city easily enough, spotted Jack and Daniel’s little blue-and-white Mini parked on the side of the road. John parked behind their car, switched on his flashlight, and led Dave on the short hike up the hill.

Jack and Daniel were already there, sitting on a blanket, Daniel unpacking a picnic basket while Jack set up his telescope. They talked in hushed voices, sharing the food (cold meat pies and other traditional pastries). Daniel turned to them, smiled, beckoned them, and John sank down on the edge of the blanket, switched off his flashlight once Dave was seated safely beside him.

“No one actually knows what standing stones are for,” Daniel said softly. “They appear to have had multiple functions - as temples or places of worship, possibly market centers, maybe even burial sites. It’s amazing, how Ancient Humanity was able to align some of the stones so perfectly so as to mark significant seasonal and astronomical events.” He tipped his head back to gaze up at the sky. 

This far from the city and up a hill, they’d escaped the worst of the light pollution from Inverness, which was a smattering of lights in the distance beside Loch Ness, and the stars were brilliant.

“Is this stone circle astronomically aligned?” Dave asked, also looking up at the sky.

“Beautifully,” Jack said. “Thirty-nine stones in the outer circle, nine stones in the inner circle, single center stone. Every equinox, every solstice, all perfectly aligned with the stones, sunrises and sunsets.”

Daniel said, “I like to think of it as a gateway to the stars. Anyone who knew could navigate the entire night sky with these stones.”

“They mark different constellations, too, at various times of the year,” Jack continued. “Virgo, Centaurus, Libra, Serpens Caput, Scorpius, Sagittarius, Aquila.”

“And some of the more ancient constellations,” Daniel added. “Acjesis, Alura, Laylox, Avonic, Aldeni, Setas, Danami.”

John cast him a look. “Never heard of those.”

“Like I said, Ancient.”

They contemplated the night sky in silence for several long moments. 

Then Jack said, “I saw you brought a guitar. What have you got?”

“Just about anything you can imagine,” Dave said. “At least, that was what he had before he shipped out for his first posting. I imagine he’s gotten more since then.”

John opened his guitar case, checked the strings, clipped the capo to the end of the neck between the tuning pegs for easy access. “What would you like?”

“Something for Danny-boy,” Jack said.

And so John began to play and sing,  _ O Danny boy, the pipes the pipes are calling. _

Jack burst out laughing, but after a couple of hiccups he joined in, and Dave picked up the harmony. On the second verse, Daniel joined in as well. As it turned out, Daniel could also play the guitar, and the four of them sent up a hearty rendition of Scotland the Brave.

Then Jack glanced at his watch. “My telescope isn’t strong enough for us to see the solar flare, but it’s happening right about now. In about eight minutes, though, it’ll be time. For the sunrise.” He rose quietly and headed up the hill the rest of the way.

John and the others followed, keeping their footsteps as soundless as possible in the dew-damp grass. Jack circled around the outer ring of thirty-nine standing stones to a specific stone.

“They call this one the Point of Origin,” Daniel whispered. He pointed toward the inner ring of nine stones. “If you look between those two, the autumn sunrise will come right up between them and land on the center stone.”

The four of them shuffled, arranging themselves so they could all have good views. John saw Jack reach for Daniel’s hand, twine their fingers together and hold tightly. Dave reached out and squeezed John’s shoulder briefly, and then they were standing side by side, facing the rising sun.

The first tendrils of light crept over the horizon, and John felt something  _ thrum _ through the earth and surge up through the soles of his feet, settle into the marrow of his bones. The sun rose higher and higher, and John held his breath, watching the golden light slide across the land, slither up the hill, and then it sliced between those two inner standing stones. Pierced the air and struck the center stone.

John’s mind was filled with those primal drums from that desert night, sweet musical laughter and twirling skirts, flourishing hands, stars and airy guitar arpeggios and something deeper, something he didn’t have words for.

The autumn sun rose, bathed the entire ring with white-gold light, like firelight reflecting off of Antarctic ice, and finally John released the breath he’d been holding.

Once the sun had risen fully, they retreated back to the picnic blanket, finished off the food. Daniel scooped up John’s guitar and began to play the familiar strains of the Skye Boat Song.

John sang along absently, shifting his emergency supplies around so the most important pieces - food, warmth, shelter - were in his cargo pockets and the rest - tools, navigation - were in his jacket pockets. He left the med kit in the satchel. In a pinch he could improvise a bunch of those.

He realized Daniel was singing as well - but singing different lyrics.

John paused, frowned. “Do you know the words in Gaelic?”

Daniel paused. “What? No.” And he sang,  _ “Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day over the sea to Skye.” _

“I’ve never heard that version.”

“The lyrics are actually a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson,” Daniel said. 

“Our mother only ever taught us the, I don’t know, more traditional version?  _ Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing; Onward! The sailors cry; Carry the lad that’s born to be king over the sea to Skye.” _

“Stevenson’s version is a little less romantic and patriotic, a bit more abstract,” Daniel said. “Here, let me teach you.”

They sat there singing as the sun climbed higher in the sky till Dave and Jack both started grumbling about being old and tired.

“I’m older than you,” John pointed out, and Dave attempted to pull one of his pleading puppy faces, an expression that hadn’t worked on John since he was ten.

“I know, I know,” Daniel said, rolling his eyes. “You need your beauty rest.”

“Yes, my beauty rest,” Jack said very pointedly, and Daniel huffed in amusement, kissed him. The two of them packed up the picnic implements. John and Dave shook out the blanket and folded it, then surrendered it to Jack. 

John made sure his guitar was packed away in its case - and then he realized the capo was missing. “Hey, you head on down to the car without me. I have to find the capo. It can’t have gone too far. It’s shiny. I’ll find it fast.”

Dave, halfway down the hill behind Daniel and Jack, paused. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Remember? Functioning adult, here.”

“All right. If you’re not at the car in fifteen, I’m sending a search party.” 

“Duly noted.” John offered him a deliberately sloppy salute, which Dave returned, and then Dave turned and trotted down the hill.

John scooped up his guitar case and headed back toward the standing stones, searching for that tell-tale glint in the grass that was the steel of his capo. He circled around to the Point of Origin, where they’d all been standing to watch the sunrise, moving slowly and carefully, searching. He was almost all the way to the Point of Origin when he noticed - the wind had picked up, ruffling his hair.

John straightened up. He knew that strange thrum in the air, the way it made heat prickle under his skin, and he reached for the pistol at his thigh, the one that wasn’t there. And then he heard a voice.

Singing.

_ Billow and breeze, island and seas _ _  
_ _ Mountains of rain and sun. _

His  _ own _ voice.

What the hell?

_ All that was good, all that was fair _ _  
_ _ All that was me is gone. _

Heart pounding, John followed the sound through the standing stones, past the Point of Origin and to the center of the ring.

_ Give me again all that was there _ _  
_ _ Give me the sun that shone. _

The heat prickling under John’s skin turned into plunging ice, but he could definitely hear his own voice singing the song Daniel had just taught him. He followed the impossible sound to the tallest stone in the center of the ring, the one bathed in warm sunlight. His voice was coming from  _ inside  _ the stone.

Impossible.

_ Give me the eyes, give me the soul. _

John reached out to the stone to see if it was actually solid, if this wasn’t some kind of insane prank.

_ Give me the lad that’s - _

John had been in a helo crash. He’d been in a plane crash. He’d been in a car crash. He’d pulled negative G’s in the middle of an aerial dogfight. He’d felt divorced from his entire body as he plummeted from a plane, the only thing between him and death a canvas canopy he was supposed to trust as a parachute. None of those things felt like this.

One moment he was pressing his hand to uncannily warm stone, the next he was -

_ Gone. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it has been brought to my attention that John drinking "warm" beer is not entirely accurate but also not entirely inaccurate. I have personally never drunk beer in my life, and none of my British relatives drink, and none of my drinking friends have ever been to Britain, so it seemed a minor detail. Upon positing the issue to my writing community, I learned that different beers are drunk at different temperatures, some much warmer than others. Some are drunk at near freezing (32 degrees to Americans) where some, to maintain optimum flavor, are drunk at about much warmer temperatures (55 degrees), so I'm leaving John's warm beer as it is. But the detail has been noted. Thanks, readers!


	2. Chapter 2

John came awake before he opened his eyes, already doing a body scan, self-assessing for injuries. Apart from a roaring headache, he was uninjured. He got to his feet. He was still in the middle of the  _ Rionnag Geata _ , fully dressed. He had his satchel and guitar case, which he hitched onto his back. 

“What the hell…?” John pressed a hand to his temple, but the throbbing didn’t ease. He could keep looking for his capo, but it wasn’t a particularly special or expensive one. Had he hit his head against the central stone? Either way, he felt pretty lousy. Best to just go back to the B&B and get some sleep.

John turned and wove through the standing stones toward the slope down to where Dave was waiting with the car on the side of the road.

A man said, “Halt! You there!”

John paused automatically, hands raised, and turned to see - a Redcoat. A genuine Revolution-era redcoat: black tricorn hat, carbine, service pistol, sword. 

Of course. Battle reenactors. People who liked to play dress-up and had never seen the real horrors of war.

“Look, I’m sorry,” John said. “Didn’t mean to stumble into the middle of your game. But I have a hell of a headache, and I just want to go back to my B&B and sleep.”

“What is your name?” the soldier demanded. A couple more soldiers appeared out of the trees behind him.

John stared at them, his head spinning even more. They didn’t look like regular reenactors. Had long, straggly hair, dirty faces. Looked exhausted and a little emaciated. He cast a nervous glance back toward the road - and the road wasn’t there. Maybe he was at the wrong angle. Maybe he’d come out of the stone circle on the wrong side of the hill.

“Your name!” the soldier shouted, and leveled his musket at John.

John stared at the gleaming bayonet, his heart speeding up. He wished he had his pistol.

“John,” he said. “My name is John Sheppard.”

The soldier paused. “Any relation to Captain Sheppard?”

Someone was playing dress-up as one of John’s ancestors? That was some very intense attention to detail. “Yes,” John said. “Captain William Wolverton Sheppard is my - uncle.” Because  _ grandfather _ certainly wouldn’t fly.

The soldier lowered his musket, eyed John up and down. “And yet you’re dressed like -”

“Like a normal person,” John said. “Look, I’m sure this is fun for you, but it’s not fun for me, and I’d like to go now.”

He started to turn.

A sharp musket report broke the air.

John’s heart kicked over into combat mode. Live gunfire. What the hell? Reenactors would never use live gunfire.

He ducked behind some of the standing stones, scanned his surroundings. The soldiers were shouting,  _ Rebels! Jacobite rebels! _ and firing back.

Whatever was going on, with live gunfire it was officially a combat situation. John had no phone, no gun, only his wits, and pretty much no knowledge of the terrain. Which way was Inverness from the hill? More musket reports went off. There was shouting, people crashing through the undergrowth. John crept through the rings of stones, searching. If he could find the River Ness, he could follow it downstream toward the Firth, and he’d find the city that way. The Cathedral. He’d see St. Andrew’s and know he was in the right place. He had to keep low, maintain cover, and get down the hill to the road as soon as possible. 

He scanned the horizon, and - there. The faintest gleam of water between the trees. He held his breath, tried to hear past the pounding of his own heart. He saw a flash of a red coat, heard another musket report. There were some more yells and shouts, though they were utterly unintelligible. John heard more shots from another direction. Red coats ran past him. He counted to ten, waited for their backup. Shots sounded further down the hill. John ran. Dashed into the trees and tore through them, angling down, down, down toward the road, in the direction of the river. 

No one was pursuing, no one was giving chase. He was safe. Safer. He could slow down, take the time to assess his surroundings. He’d left his phone at the B&B, so he had no way to call Dave for help, or even call the cops, because reenactors using live ammo had to be a crime.

John stumbled out of the undergrowth and into a clearing beside a stream where another reenactor was kneeling, filling his canteen, seemingly oblivious to the chaos John had just left behind. John sucked in a breath, not sure if he was going to issue an invective or a warning or -

The man lifted his head, and John came up short.

“Dave?”

It was Dave, dressed in one of those red uniforms, only he had long hair pulled back in a cue, and he looked tired, his uniform stained with dust from the road.

“Pardon?” the man asked, and he rose to his feet, one hand twitching for the pistol at his hip in a soldier reflex Dave definitely didn’t have.

“Sorry,” John said. “I mistook you for someone else.”

“I am Captain William Wolverton Sheppard of His Majesty’s Dragoons, at your service.”

John’s headache returned to the forefront with roaring force. Dave didn’t have an accent like that. Dave was, in fact, terrible at mimicking accents. “That’s great. Good for you. Just so you know, a bunch of your really crazy buddies are running around back there with live ammo, and you better put a stop to it.”

The strange man who looked too much like Dave for comfort prowled closer. “I do not quite comprehend the full manner of your speech. You sound like no Highlander. And you are attired in a very unusual manner.”

John took a step back, settling his weight so he could take a combat stance if necessary. “American,” he said. “I’m American.”

“Ah, from the Colonies?”

“Yes. Virginia.” 

One thing Dave had managed to do was shed the Virginia drawl.

“What brings you back here, Mister -”

“Lee,” John said, because if this man was pretending to be his ancestor, John copping to the same last name as him would just make things stupid and messy and complicated. And he was genuinely descended from one of the Lees of Virginia, something else his father was stupidly proud of. “John Lee.”

“Mr. John Lee of the Virginia Colony, what brings you to Scotland?” The man opposite John had Dave’s square jaw, his dark hair and straight nose, the same broad forehead and bright blue eyes. The way he was looking at John made something in his gut twist.

The man was sparking off John’s inner Spidey sense. Danger. This man was dangerous in a way Dave definitely was not.

So John lied. “Family. My mother was a Campbell.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “So you are a Highlander?”

“My father is an Englishman,” John said.

“But surely no gentleman.”

John was irrationally affronted by the insult. “What makes you say that?”

The other man lunged, pinned John against a tree, groping between John’s legs. 

“Because you are dressed like a  _ whore.” _

Panic, a kind John had never known, visceral and paralyzing, seized him.

No. This wasn’t a game. This was some kind of madness. Stupid use of live ammo was one thing, but  _ rape _ was something else. 

The man fumbled at the fly of John’s pants. “What devilry is this?”

The zipper. He didn’t know how to handle the zipper.

John head-butted him. The man fell back with a snarl. John struck again, a solid gut punch. The man doubled over with a wheeze, and John turned. Ran.

Heard the ominous  _ click _ of a pistol hammer cocking.

Froze. 

“You  _ slattern,” _ the man spat.

John turned slowly, heart hammering. What the hell was going on? Men in British Army uniforms circa the mid-Eighteenth century, live ammo, shouts about Jacobite rebels, and those hands on his body.

Captain William Wolverton Sheppard of His Majesty’s Dragoons stood aiming a pistol right at John’s heart.

How was this possible?

A shadow slid up out of the trees. There was a flash of a weapon, and Black Bill Sheppard crumpled.

There was another pale flash - of a hand, a man beckoning, speaking rapidly in a tongue John didn’t understand. It took him a moment before he realized - it was Gaelic. Black Bill started to stir.

The man said,  _ “Come on!” _

And John ran toward him, into the trees.

The man grabbed his wrist and tore through the trees like he knew them by heart, dragging John back  _ up _ the hill. As they ran, John realized - the light was fading. How long had he been lying in the stone circle? Why hadn’t Dave or John or Daniel or  _ someone _ come to get him?

Because they couldn’t have. Because John had somehow traveled  _ back in time. _

It made horrifying sense. Occam’s Razor. When you hear hoofbeats, expect horses, not zebras.

Hoofbeats: insane reenactors who engaged in felonious weapons discharges, attempted murder, and attempted rape. A man who looked like Dave and called himself William Wolverton Sheppard.

Zebras: a bunch of people pretending to do those things, because who pretended that far?

Horses: time travel.

How the hell was time travel horses?

No. Impossible. Time travel was impossible.

It wouldn’t be irrational to expect zebras in Africa. Scotland, Africa - John was willing to conflate the two just this once, for his own sanity.

John’s rescuer and possible kidnapper was a shorter man, with broad shoulders, dark hair that was about chin-length, who was wearing a jacket, a mass of heavy wool around his hips that was unlike any kilt John had ever seen, and boots. And he had a long blade at his hip. 

“Wait,” John protested, digging in his heels. “Where are we going?”

But the man kept on running, nearly wrenched John’s arm out of its socket, and John had to either go with him or fall on his face and risk injury in unknown terrain.

And then John could see the night sky, stars glowing truer and brighter than he’d ever thought possible. His rescuer-kidnapper whipped around a corner, and damn but John had let himself go in the last couple of months, because when the man skidded to a halt, John doubled over behind him, hands on his knees, gasping for air. When he’d left Afghanistan, he’d been able to keep up with the Marines, been able to run a five-minute mile.

Granted, that was Afghanistan, and this was the Scottish highlands.

They were outside a small building, a veritable wooden shack. The man straightened up, dusted himself off, and headed for the door. He beckoned John with him. John hesitated.

The man rolled his eyes, grabbed John’s wrist, and yanked him into the shack.

The only room inside was filled with three other men, all similarly outfitted to John’s rescuer, in thick kilts, waistcoats and coats, save one, who was seated beside the fire in just his kilt and shirtsleeves.

Immediately a furor rose up when they saw John, and his rescuer spoke in rapid-fire Gaelic, hands raised in a placating gesture.

One of the men stepped forward. He was tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, with short brown hair and blue eyes and a small, neat reddish beard. He spoke with a thick Highland accent, one that was hard to follow even after having spent the last week in Scotland.

“What’s your business here,  _ sassenach?” _

John knew  _ sassenach _ was the Gaelic equivalent of the Japanese  _ gaijin. _ Stranger. Foreigner. Derogatory.

“I’ve been separated from my family,” John said, as slowly and calmly as he could, “and I want to return to them.”

The man cocked his head. “Where are you from?”

“He’s not English,” John’s rescuer said. “I heard him tell auld Black Bill himself that his mam’s a Campbell.”

“Is this true?” the leader demanded.

“Yes,” John said. “My mother’s forefather, Samuel Campbell, traveled to the Colonies on the Mayflower. I’m from Virginia Colony.”

“What’s your name, then?”

John had been through SERE training, knew how to withstand interrogation, and the best way to survive without getting caught out in a lie was to tell the truth as much as possible - and stick to stories he’d already told. 

“Who’s asking?”

The leader drew himself up. “I am Cameron Mitchell, War Chief of Clan Mitchell.”

The other man behind him also drew himself up, visibly bristling.

John had talked down aggressive Afghani natives more than once. He could do this. “My name is John Lee. And I - am a traveling minstrel.” These men were apparently crazy members of a cult, a historical reenactment cult, and as long as John played along, they would let him go. 

Because that was more horses than time travel was.

“A minstrel?” Cameron echoed.

John nodded, shrugged his guitar case off his back - how had it lasted this long, with the dash through the woods and Black Bill slamming him against a tree?

(Had to be Black Bill, not his own brother Dave. Dave never would have -)

Several of the men recoiled, drawing short blades, but John raised one hand in surrender. “This is my guitar.” He unzipped the case as carefully and quietly as he could muster (and he remembered Black Bill’s hands fumbling at the zipper on his pants -  _ no no no don’t think about it) _ and drew the black fabric aside. “See?”

He ran a finger over the strings. Some of the men relaxed at the sound.

Not Cameron. He prowled closer. “How do we know you aren’t an English spy?”

John’s rescuer said, “Black Bill thought he was a -  _ tail.” _

John’s throat closed when one of the men - younger, slender, with big blue eyes and his red-brown hair tied back in a braid - stepped forward. “Shall we give him a test?”

Cameron grabbed his shoulder. “No. I don’t hold with rape.”

“Thanks for that,” John snapped, angry and panicky all at once.

“I’m jesting, Uncle. Been a long time since we had a minstrel at the castle,” said the young man, his expression bright and completely unapologetic. “The Mitchell will enjoy good music.”

The man beside the fire said, “This discussion of music has been braw, but my shoulder needs seeing to, and I’ve no doubt the English will come looking for their  _ tail.” _

John’s rescuer started over to the fire. “Och, Rodney, dinnae be so grabbit. Much more grumbling and you’ll be greeting like a wee bairn.”

Rodney scrubbed at his face with one hand. “I’m nae greeting, clot-heid. Bind up my shoulder and we can ride out.”

Crazy cult people, threatening violence and sexual assault at every turn. John yanked his guitar case closed. If he made himself useful, he had better survival odds. There were four of them and one of him. They were armed and he wasn’t. They knew the terrain and he didn’t. He’d stick with them till he spotted a familiar road or landmark, and then he’d take his chances, be on his way. Call the damn cops.

“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” John asked. 

“Out of joint,” John’s rescuer said. 

Cameron clicked his tongue disapprovingly, prowled back to Rodney’s side. In the firelight Rodney had warm golden skin, gleaming dark golden hair, and pale blue eyes. He was handsome, though his expression was pained. Something about him was familiar.

“How does it feel, Roddy?”

“Couldnae manage a horse,” Rodney muttered.

Cameron eyed John’s rescuer and the skinny, braided boy who’d jested with John’s personal safety. “Evan, Donnan, can you push it back in?”

“Aye,” John’s rescuer said. He moved to grasp Rodney’s arm, nodded at the skinny boy. “Donnan?”

Donnan moved to grasp Rodney’s arm and shoulder.

Evan, John’s rescuer, began to count. “One, two -”

“Stop!” John cried.

Evan and Donnan recoiled from Rodney, startled.

“If you do it like that, you’ll break his arm.”

The men blinked at John.

John huffed. “I’m a former PJ. I can fix him.”

The men blinked at him again. 

“What is a  _ pee-jay?” _ Evan asked.

“Pararescue,” John said.

The men still looked confused.

“A maroon beret. I was a battlefield medic.”

At  _ medic, _ the men relaxed.

“Can you fix his shoulder?” Cameron asked.

John nodded. “If you’ll give me some room?” He moved closer to Rodney. Evan and Donnan obligingly stepped back.

“A medic?” Rodney protested, his voice rising in something like panic. “You said you were a minstrel.”

“I can be both.” John reached into his satchel and drew out the bandage he’d packed in his emergency med kit. “Okay, I need to get your bone aligned properly before I put your shoulder back in. This is going to hurt.”

“Hurt? How much?” Rodney asked.

Cameron growled. “You greet like a lass, Rodney. Shut your mouth and let the man work.”

John eased Rodney’s right shoulder back into the right position. “Okay, on three.”

“I dinnae ken what you mean by  _ okay,” _ Rodney protested.

John huffed, frustrated. “On the count of three, I’ll pop your arm back in. Ready?”

Rodney swallowed hard. “Aye.”

John caught Donnan’s eye. “Count us in.”

Donnan cleared his throat. “One -”

John shoved. All of the men flinched at the sickening sound of the joint popping back into place. All of the men save Rodney, who sucked in a breath and was incapable of making noise. John smoothed a hand over the back of his neck instinctively, a soothing motion that he’d used on countless injured soldiers before while Rodney panted.

“Rodney?” Evan asked.

“I’m all right,” Rodney said through gritted teeth.

He was lying. John knew getting a shoulder shoved back into place was agonizing.

“As long as you behave, it’ll heal up right,” John said. He used the bandage to bind Rodney’s arm to his side and chest, immobilize it. “It’ll be swollen and tender for about a week. Now -”

“Now we ride.” Cameron peered out the front door of the shack. Donnan and Evan helped Rodney into his jacket.

“Ride?” John echoed. “Horses?”

“What else?” Donnan asked. “Cannae get a cart up here.”

“Can I borrow a horse?” John asked. “Just to get back to Inverness, back to my younger brother.” He threw  _ younger _ in there in hopes of a measure of sympathy.

Cameron slewed him a dark look. “After The Mitchell has seen to you, if you prove no spy, you can go on your way.”

“And after you play some music,” Donnan piped up.

Cameron cuffed him upside the head.

Evan wrangled Rodney’s jacket back over his shoulders, helped him to his feet. Cameron ordered Donnan to put out the fire, and the rest of them headed out the back to where four horses were tethered. Evan plucked John’s guitar case out of his hands before he could protest, fastened it to the saddlebags of one horse, and then Evan helped Rodney onto the horse. Rodney grumbled a lot about being about to do it himself but accepted the assistance in the end. Then Evan extended a hand to John to also help him onto Rodney’s horse.

“I know how to ride a horse,” John said sharply. “Give me my guitar and I’ll go.”

Cameron drew his blade in an instant. “You’ll ride with Rodney and you’ll answer to The Mitchell.”

Could John take Cameron? They were of a height.

Donnan stepped out of the shack, blade drawn. “War Chief?” he asked.

“I cannae manage the horse,” Rodney said. “If you know how to ride, you take the reins.”

John looked up at him and realized - Rodney looked just like the highlander he’d seen under the street light below the B&B window two nights ago.

Two nights ago?

Evan drew his blade as well, looking hesitant.

“Fine,” John said, and mounted the horse, sitting in front of Rodney. “Just so you don’t mess up your shoulder and undo my work.” What were the chances of him being able to kidnap Rodney, take the horse and go?

Not good, seeing how all of the other men had pistols.

It was raining, cold and damp. John directed Rodney’s horse to follow the others’, and as they turned, he saw the Firth in the distance. And he saw a handful of faint glows, like firelight.

His heart crawled up into his throat. “Where’s the city?”

“City?” Rodney echoed.

“Inverness.”

Rodney nodded. “Inverness is there.” He pointed to the handful of primitive glows below the hill.

John nudged the horse forward with the others, numbness stealing through his limbs. He kept staring down toward the Firth, but there was no sign of the city lights at Inverness. And he didn’t see the paved roads.

No wonder the stars were so bright. No light pollution.

Time travel was looking more and like horses. 

“Where are we going?” John asked.

Cameron didn’t answer.

Behind him, Rodney was fidgeting.

“What are you doing?” John hissed, wary, because if Rodney tried to grope him, busted shoulder or no busted shoulder, John was pushing him off the horse and riding off toward the sunrise.

“Covering you with my played,” Rodney said.

John twisted round to look at him.  _ “What?” _

Rodney was doing something with the fabric of his kilt. He tugged it up, wrapped it around John’s shoulders. 

“For your warmth,” Rodney said. Up close, he had a strong jaw and a fascinating mouth. His expression was a little sulky, but the wool fabric was warm and also water resistant.

“Thanks,” John said. His leather jacket was waterproof, but compared to the other men, he was wearing hardly any layers, and his pants and t-shirt were pretty thoroughly soaked. So Rodney called plaid  _ played. _ John had always heard it pronounced  _ plad. _

Still there was no sign of any modern civilization. No roads. No lights. No signs. Hoofbeats and horses. When was John? Revolution-era English uniforms,  _ His _ Majesty. Jacobite rebels. Before 1746, but not much earlier. John’s mind spun. How had he gotten there? How could he get back?

What kind of medical technology was available back then? Mostly herb lore. What kind of weapons technology? Muskets. Carbines. Pistols. Single shot. No repeaters. Nothing rifled. Black powder. Close-range combat, mostly with swords and shields. Daniel, Jack, and Dave had poured so much Scottish history down his throat in the last couple of days. Highlanders were possibly rebels. English troops were there to suppress rebellion. The Watch roamed the highlands, ostensibly keeping order but also acting as thugs and mercenaries, thieves and land pirates.

“Did he hurt you?” Rodney asked in a low voice, jerking John out of his mental frenzy.

John’s chest tightened. “Who?”

“Captain Sheppard.”

“You know him?”

“We’ve met. Did he hurt you?”

“No. He didn’t have a chance. Between me and Evan -”

“Good.” Rodney’s voice was hard.

And that was why John hadn’t immediately made a break for it. Captain Sheppard and the English had tried to hurt him. The Highlanders so far had not. Threatened him, were suspicious of him, but Evan had saved him from -

“Where are we going?” John asked quietly.

“Back to the castle.”

“Castle Leoch?”

“You know it?”

“Not really. How far?”

“If we ride all night and all day, we will make it in good time.”

John twisted around in the saddle again. “What? No. You have to stop, to rest your shoulder.”

“No stopping,” Cameron barked. “We ride fast and we ride hard.”

John turned to peer ahead into the darkness and rain. “But Rodney -”

“Dinna fash yerself,” Rodney said, and John turned to look at him again.

“What does that mean?”

“It means stop worrying like a wife,” Evan said, and Donnan laughed.

Rodney snapped at Evan in Gaelic, but Evan and Donnan just laughed again.

Cameron said something that made both men fall silent, and the horses trotted on.

“What’s your name?” John asked after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“Rodney. Rodney - Mitchell.”

“You related to Cameron?”

“Cousins,” Rodney said flatly.

“Not proud of being part of Clan Mitchell?”

“Clan Mitchell.” Rodney grumbled.  _ “Favente Deo supero _ indeed.”

It took John a moment to parse out the Latin phrase. “Because of God’s favor I overcome?”

“By God’s favor I conquer.” Rodney cleared his throat right beside John’s ear, making him jump. “You were educated in Latin, then?”

“And French, and -” a bit of Arabic and Pashto. “And Spanish. A bit.”

“My parents gave me good schooling,” Rodney said. “Latin. French. Greek. A good classical education.”

Classical education. What did that entail? John would have to find out. Compared to Cameron, who was like so many cranky commanding officers John had known, and Evan and Donnan, who were like so many raucous Marines John had known, Rodney seemed - different. Less harsh. Perhaps less even-tempered than Evan and less darkly jovial than Donnan, but - softer, in a way.

“What about the rest of your men?” John asked. “Who are they?”

“Donnan Maxwell. His mother is a Mitchell. Also a cousin,” Rodney said.

At the sound of his name, Donnan let out a little whoop and the war cry,  _ “Reviresco!” _

John rolled that around in his head. Also Latin. Interesting how some were Latin, some were French. “I will rise again?”

“Aye, I will,” Donnan said, with what John could only assume was a lewd gesture. “Again and again and again -”

Evan shoved him in the shoulder. “Quiet, you.”

“What about you, Evan?” John called out. “Got a battle cry?”

“Clan Lorne isn’t a clan at all,” Donnan said.

“Shut it, Lowlander,” Cameron said, though without malice.

“Me mam’s a Highlander,” Donnan protested.

“The Lornes are a sept of Clan McKay,” Evan said.  _ “Manu forti.” _

“With a strong hand,” Donnan said wisely, and made another lewd gesture. Then he squinted at John. “Campbells are Highlanders.”

John’s mother had taught him as much.  _ “Ne obliviscaris. _ Forget not.” He glanced at Rodney and added, “Campbell’s from a nickname. Means  _ crooked mouth.” _

“I expect you’ll forget us all as soon as you’re back in your lovely Virginia,” Rodney said, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“In your lovely Virginia.” Donnan snickered.

Evan reached out and cuffed Donnan upside the head.

John cast about, and he realized - he recognized where they were. Had driven through this stretch of valley with Dave less than a week ago. Driven. But there was no road beneath the horses’ hooves.

It was real. Time travel was real.

John had time-traveled. He had to accept that reality and just - move on, if he wanted to survive.

He’d probably have to tell him that a thousand times more. 

And then he remembered what Dave had told him about this place. He twisted back around, prodded Rodney. “Hey. Up there. The peak shaped like a rooster tail? The English use it for ambushes.”

Rodney’s eyes went wide. He snaked an arm around John’s waist, grabbed the reins, and spurred the horse forward with a click of his tongue and a nudge of his heels. He drew up beside Cameron, spoke rapidly in Gaelic, and maybe John shouldn’t have been so quick to refuse the Gaelic lessons his mother had offered once.

“How do you know this?” Cameron grabbed John’s wrist, held him tightly.

“My brother told me.”

“And how came your brother by this knowledge?”

“I don’t know.”

Rodney said, “It would be a good place to stage an ambush. Were I English, I would -”

Shouts and musket reports broke the darkness.

Cameron drew his blade and roared, charged in the direction of the gunfire. Donnan and Evan followed, shouting and drawing their blades.

Rodney drew his blade. “Go,” he said. And he shoved John off the horse before charging into battle. Muzzle flashes lit the night like miniature explosions. Horses shrieked in terror. John managed to land on his feet, right himself. This was his chance. All he had to do was follow the valley back toward Inverness and - what?

There was a gunshot, a cry of pain, and Donnan yelled,  _ Roddy! _

John turned and saw Rodney stagger back, dropping his blade. A uniformed soldier was advancing on him, bayonet poised to run him through.

John didn’t think. John acted.

This was battle. This was war. This was in John’s blood and bones. This he knew. This was something he’d been foolish to try to forget.

John caught the barrel of the musket, yanked the soldier toward him, punched him in the face. He wrenched the musket free, shifted his grasp on it, slammed it across the soldier’s head. The soldier dropped. John stomped on his kidney, pivoted, caught another soldier across the face with the butt of the musket. 

There were soldiers seemingly on all sides. John had never known close combat like this, not with hands and blades, feeling his enemy’s breath on his face, but his body knew what to do. He punched and kicked, grabbed a man and threw him down, stomped on his face. Kicked another man in the knee. Heard a sickening crack. Stomped on the next man’s ankle.

There was a grunt. John spun, brought the musket up to stab.

“Don’t!” Evan cried.

John froze.

“It’s over,” Evan said. “Come on.”

John dropped the musket. “Where’s Rodney? I saw - he was hurt.”

Cameron, Donnan, and Rodney were getting back on their horses.

Donnan gazed at John with wide eyes as John stooped down, picked up Rodney’s fallen blade. 

“Hey. You dropped this,” John said. He leaned up, handed it to Rodney, who sheathed it at his belt.

“You’re definitely no tail,” Donnan said. “You fight like the devil himself!”

John ignored the boy, but Cameron was eyeing him shrewdly.

“Are you all right?” John asked.

“I’m fine,” Rodney said. “Mount up. It’s time to go.”

John shook his head. “I saw you take a hit.”

Rodney was clutching his side with his bad hand. “Dinnae fash yersel.”

“Let me see,” John insisted.

“Go on, let him,” Evan said.

Rodney sighed and rolled his eyes, but he peeled his hand away. It was wet with blood, and his shirt was soaked.

“Were you stabbed or shot?” John demanded. 

“’Tis just a flesh wound,” Rodney said, and John had never thought he’d actually hear someone say that in real life.

“Stabbed or shot?”

“We cannae linger here,” Donnan said nervously. 

John cast him a look. “I need to patch him up before the wound gets infected.”

“Nae, we cannae linger. Let us ride on for a ways, then you can tend to him.” Cameron nudged his horse forward.

“I’m fine,” Rodney insisted.

John hoisted himself onto the horse behind Rodney and held onto him. “No, you’re not. Let’s go. The sooner we get to a safe distance, the sooner we can stop and get you looked at.”

And so they rode.

John didn’t look at the men they’d left behind, didn’t check to see if they were alive or dead. He was alive, and for now that was what mattered. That and Rodney, who was pale and sweating even beneath the cool dampness of the rain on his skin.

The sun was starting to creep through the trees as the horses trotted on. John didn’t have a good sense of distance, not without the familiar road signs and other landmarks to guide him. Between measuring kliks in the military for a couple of decades and rolling around in Europe, which ran on the metric system, his ability to eyeball a mile was pretty rusty.

“Can we stop now? For Rodney?”

“How are ye, Roddy?” Cameron asked.

“It’s  _ Rodney, _ and I’m fine.”

“Then we ride on.” And Cameron clicked his tongue at his horse, urging it faster.

“He’s not fine,” John insisted. Color was rising in Rodney’s cheeks. Was that the pain, or was it something worse, like fever?

“Really,” John insisted. “And if we don’t stop right now, Rodney is going to -”

Rodney swayed dangerously in the saddle and started to tip. John cried out and lunged, caught him. Cameron called a halt. Immediately Donnan caught the reins of Rodney’s horse. Cameron and Evan were quickly on hand to help John lower Rodney gently to the ground. John knelt beside him, pawed aside the wool of his jacket and saw blood staining his shirt. John shoved the fabric of his shirt aside and saw - he was bleeding sluggishly from a stab wound just below his ribs.

Donnan swore in Gaelic. John fumbled open his satchel. He had duct tape and linen bandages. He needed to suture the wound. But he had no sterile needle and thread.

“What devilry is this?” Cameron crossed himself when he saw the duct tape. 

“I need some disinfectant,” John said.

Evan and Donnan looked at him blankly. 

John wracked his brain. Archaic field medicine. In a pinch, he could use - “Alcohol. Give me alcohol.”

Evan handed him a flask from inside his jacket. John took it from him, soaked a bandage. He used a portion of the bandage to scrub the blood away from the wound and then he bound the wound as tightly as he could with Evan and Donnan’s assistance in wrangling Rodney’s dead weight. John used the duct tape to secure the bandage in place, and then he carefully rearranged Rodney’s clothes. 

“Will he be all right?” Donnan asked, anxious.

John pressed a hand to Rodney’s forehead, checked his temperature. “He has a fever. I need to give him medicine to bring it down. That means the wound is already infected. We need to get him back to the castle immediately. Help me get him onto the horse.”

Cameron, Evan and Donnan all helped lift Rodney onto the horse. John would have to ride behind him, one arm around his waist, one hand on the reins. 

Rodney was only half-conscious as they pelted through the woods toward Castle Leoch. John clung to him tightly, afraid he’d fall again. Rodney was shivering despite all the layers he was wearing. He rested against John, his skin hot and clammy to the touch. When they paused to water the horses - and for the men to water some shrubbery - John shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over Rodney's shoulders. Then he very gingerly arranged Rodney’s plaid for an extra layer of warmth. 

They rode hard seemingly forever, only pausing for the briefest breaks. They ate as they went, Evan speeding up and slowing down to share food from his saddlebags. If John wanted to survive, Rodney needed to survive. John wanted Rodney to survive, because the Scots had been good to him, had rescued him, and - despite Donnan’s dark humor - hadn’t tried to hurt him. John was so caught up in Rodney’s welfare - checking his temperature, his breathing, his bandage (the duct tape was keeping the wound clean, closed, and dry) - that he barely noticed when they came upon the castle. One moment he was talking softly to Rodney, gauging his coherence and responsiveness, the next there were voices all around. John lifted his head when a shadow fell across his vision. They’d just ridden through the gates and into the courtyard of Castle Leoch. 

John stared. The courtyard was alive, bustling with people. There was a cart of hay and another cart loaded with pigs and chickens in a wicker cage. Several stalls against the wall housed craftsmen - a fletcher at a worktable making crossbow bolts, a blacksmith hammering orange-hot metal on an anvil, a man scraping a piece of hide. Two women with baskets piled high with cloth were having a loud discussion, hands waving. 

John was officially a believer in time-travel, was willing to acknowledge that he had somehow traveled to the mid-eighteenth century after passing out while hunting for his capo. The absence of city lights at Inverness, the absence of a paved road where John knew there was one, the sheer absence of everything modern confirmed to John that he was in a time that wasn’t his own. Where the Castle Leoch that John had visited with Dave had been a stark empty monument, it was before his eyes an actual castle - military fortress, center of commerce, residence. John took it all in, the sounds and smells, and knew he was in a different world. 

A woman crossed the courtyard, skirts hitched up in her hands, wisps of hair escaping from a messy bun half-covered by a little white day cap. She had deep red-brown hair, bright dark eyes and a fierce expression. She made a beeline for Rodney, reached up and grasped one of his limp hands. Then she turned to Cameron. 

“What have you done to him?”

Under the fury snapping in her gaze Cameron looked less like a war chief and more like a chastened child. “Now, Mrs. Fraiser, ’tis no more than any man could suffer in a brief scuffle with the Redcoats -”

“He’s burning with fever. You’ve let the wound become festered, haven’t you?” Mrs. Fraiser glared at him.

The boy who was taking Cameron’s horse from him was trying to pretend he wasn’t watching and listening, that he wasn’t highly amused at Cameron’s sheepish expression.

Mrs. Fraiser snapped at Evan and Donnan, “Help me with Rodney.” 

Both of them scrambled to obey as fast as they obeyed Cameron’s orders. 

“Dinna fash yerself,” Cameron tried in a soothing tone, moving to help Evan and Donnan lift Rodney off the horse. 

“Dinna fash meself?”' Mrs. Fraiser echoed. “You’re lucky he’s not bleeding to death.” 

“Not lucky, wise,” Cameron protested. He settled himself against Rodney’s side. Evan supported Rodney’s weight from the other side. “We’ve a charmer.” Cameron nodded up at John. 

Mrs. Fraiser looked up at him, and her mouth fell open. Belatedly, John remember how Black Bill had thought he was dressed like a whore.

Mrs. Fraiser blinked at him. “What have we here?”

Donnan unlatched John’s guitar case from Rodney’s saddlebags, scooped Rodney’s saddlebags off the horse with an ease of strength belied by his slender frame. “This is John Lee from the Virginia colony. His mam’s a Campbell. Fell afoul of the Redcoats on the way to visit kin. Lost his wee brother. He’s a minstrel - and a medic.”

“I need willowbark tea for Rodney immediately.” John figured he’d go for urgent medical care over an awkward introduction.

Mrs. Fraiser nodded approvingly. “Of course. Donnan, Old Widow McLachlan passed several nights hence. Give the new charmer her quarters.”

“New charmer?” John asked warily. 

But Donnan tugged on his arm with his free hand. “Hurry. For Rodney!”

John followed Donnan through a veritable maze of stone passages and hallways. John was utterly lost until they emerged in the kitchen. John paused in the doorway, heard the echo of the impromptu tour guide’s words about life and activity in a castle kitchen. Her words paled in comparison to the reality - roaring ovens, happy feminine chatter, boyish laughter, the rattle of spoons and pots, the rough scrape of knives on chopping boards, the scent of garlic and onion and rosemary, steam and smoke and fire. 

There rose a collective cry of dismay when the kitchen maids saw Donnan, and several hunched protectively over their food, scolding him in Gaelic. Donnan laughed, still securely laden with saddlebags and the guitar case. Something he said made all of the women turn and stare at John. 

He froze under the scrutiny. “Uh, hello?”

Evan appeared on the far side of the kitchen. “Och, Donnan, cease your lollygagging.” 

“Right. Mrs. Fraiser says the sassenach is our new charmer.” Donnan crossed the kitchen. 

John followed, clutching his emergency satchel to his chest like a shield. All of the maids and kitchen boys stared at him, wordless as he went past. 

Evan turned and trotted down the stairs - to the cellar room John had been in before, three-hundred or so years in the future. Of course, he hadn’t seen it like this, lit with candles, bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling beams, the shelves and table lined with glass bottles and jars full of arcane substances, a fire roaring beneath a cauldron in the fireplace. There were multiple cots, one shoved into the corner in the darkest part of the room, a couple near the fire. Rodney was sprawled on the one beneath the tiny glass-paned window. 

“I’ve done my best to make him comfortable,” Evan said. Cameron was nowhere to be seen. 

“I need that tea.” John pulled up a stool beside Rodney’s cot. He didn’t have much in his emergency kit for fevers. He pushed Rodney’s clothes aside so he could check the wound. 

Donnan and Evan watched in morbid fascination as John peeled the duct tape aside, wincing at the sound it made. He cast about for a garbage can but didn’t see one. There was a wooden pail in the corner. “Is that the chamber pot? No? Bring it to me.”

Donnan obeyed. John tossed the used tape into it. Rodney’s wound was bleeding sluggishly beneath the bandage. Rodney definitely needed stitches. John wiped away what blood he could. Then he held out a hand. 

“Alcohol.”

Evan surrendered his flask without question.

“I need a needle, silk thread, and boiling water. And fresh bandages.” 

“Here’s a hot kettle for your tea, and to boil the old bandages.” Mrs. Fraiser descended the stairs with a wooden tray. 

John glanced up at her. “Thanks.” 

Mrs. Fraiser nodded and set the tray down on the worktable. “I’ll fetch the needles, thread and bandages. Evan, the War Chief sends for you. Donnan, go speak to Katie about some proper clothes for Mr. Lee.”

Rodney came awake with a hiss when the alcohol touched his wound. He swatted at John’s hands, panic in his half-lucid gaze. He was mumbling in a mixture of Gaelic and English. 

“Dinnae touch me! I'll tell ye nothin’. Where is she? Where’s my Jeannie?”

Donnan looked confused. Mrs. Fraiser began steeping some willowbark tea. And Evan - Evan looked grim. 

John had dealt with pained, delirious, injured soldiers before. “Hey, buddy,” he said to Rodney, “I’m not interrogating you. I’m sure your darling Jeannie is fine.” No matter how shallow the relationship, mentioning the girlfriend always helped. 

Rodney tried to squirm away, still spitting at him in Gaelic. 

“Go, get the needle and thread,” John said to Mrs. Fraiser. “Donnan, Evan, hold him.” John needed a sedative, and he needed it fast. He jumped up, headed over to the jars on the shelves. Most of them were unlabeled, and what labels were there were unintelligible. John needed belladonna berries, just a few. They would make Rodney sleep and stop moving. Eventually he found a jar full of the familiar deadly nightshade flowers - and the dried dark berries. John dropped two berries into the teapot with the willowbark to steep. Willowbark tea was aspirin - it would help with the fever. 

At John’s urging, Evan eased Rodney up into a sitting position so he could drink the tea. John kept up a steady stream of inane chatter - about how Rodney was more stubborn than some Marines John had treated, how being stoic and stubborn about pain only made you tough and impressive till it made you dead. John knew his voice - and his strange accent - would keep Rodney grounded in the present and lucid enough to obey instructions. John insinuated a lot of unkind things about Rodney’s masculinity to try to convince him to drink all of the tea, but Rodney was unmoved. 

When John insulted Rodney’s intelligence - only an idiot would let himself die over a scratch from a Redcoat - Rodney glared and said he’d received top marks from his tutors as a child, better than either Jeannie or Evan. So Jeannie was Rodney’s childhood sweetheart. 

John asked Rodney to let him inspect his shoulder. “You never did tell me how you injured it.”

Donnan started to say,  _ By falling off his horse, _ but Rodney cut him off with a glare and said, “By being brave and valorous in combat with the Redcoats.”

“As long as you behave for the next little while, you won’t screw up my repair job on your shoulder,” John said. He’d long mastered the art of keeping a light enough tone that his patients weren’t unduly worried but so they knew he was serious about their health.

“Screw up?” Donnan echoed.

Mrs. Frasier reappeared with a needle and a spool of thread and some fresh bandages. She barked at Donnan and Evan, who suddenly remembered they had tasks to attend to elsewhere. Donnan was up the narrow stone stairs in a flash, but Evan lingered and wished Rodney a speedy recovery, reminded him to mind the charmer’s orders and then departed. Evan and Rodney had known each other since childhood, if Rodney’s comments about his childhood education were to be believed.

The tea was already having its effect. Rodney’s speech became slurred, and his eyes slipped closed. Mrs. Fraiser looked alarmed, but John reached out and lowered Rodney gently down to the cot before he passed out completely. Evan had kindly left his flask behind, so John used it to clean the wound further. He sterilized the needle as best as he could in the flame of a candle, sterilized the thread in the alcohol. He didn’t have forceps to help with sutures, so he had to stitch the wound closed by hand. Maybe the blacksmith could make him a couple pairs of suture forceps - no. He wasn’t staying. He had to get back to his own time. And the best place to start looking for the path home was the  _ Rionnag Geata. _

Mrs. Fraiser watched him work. “You have a steady hand, Mr. Lee.”

“Call me John.”

“John,” she said cautiously.

There was no point in checking Rodney’s shoulder while he was thoroughly unconscious. He was of an age with John, certainly strong and healthy-looking (given the deplorable state of health and hygiene in the era), and John suspected the fever wouldn’t have taken so quickly were Rodney not already exhausted and stressed out.

Mrs. Fraiser eyed him, then finally said, “You can call me Janet.”

John nodded. “Thank you, Janet.” He sank down on the edge of the worktable. Now what? He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Are you all right?” Janet asked.

John eyed her. “In a physical, medical sense, yes, perfectly all right. In a metaphysical, quantum mechanical sense, not so much.”

Janet eyed him back. “I dinnae ken what you mean by half of that, but as you’re on your own two feet, I’ll take my leave of you.”

“Thanks.” John waved, and Janet hesitated for a moment before she waved back, then turned and headed up the stairs, skirts rustling.

John sat gazing at Rodney, who was sleeping the uncannily still sleep of the drugged, mouth half-open and snoring softly. And then he realized - now was his chance. Evan and Donnan and Cameron were distracted. Rodney was asleep. Janet was gone. John could go. He could grab his gear and see about maybe stealing a horse and get back to Inverness, to the  _ Rionnag Gaeta. _

He knew where Inverness was in relation to Castle Leoch. He had a compass. He could ride hard. He’d have to steal some clothes to blend in a bit.

John stared down at Rodney. “Sorry, buddy,” he said. “Nothing personal. But I have places to go, people to see. Dave’s probably having a total freak-out right about now.” He cast about, saw a pile of folded cloth in the corner. Blankets. He used one to cover Rodney, and of a kindness he stoked the fire up so it burned a little hotter, and then he scooped up his emergency satchel and his guitar.

No. The guitar was too big and unwieldy, and it would make him memorable to boot. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get another guitar when he got back to his own time anyway.

His own time.

How insane was it, that he was even  _ thinking _ that phrase?

No matter. A couple days’ hard ride and the past would be just that - the past.

John set the guitar down, grabbed his leather jacket - because it was waterproof and warm and also had other supplies in its pockets - and started for the stairs.

Only Donnan and Evan were blocking the stairway.

John cleared his throat. “Hey, guys, could you move aside -?”

“Out of the way, out of the way!” Donnan hissed.

Evan swore at him in Gaelic, and John realized - they weren’t blocking the stairway to prevent his escape. They were carrying something large between them.

A giant tin bath that was full of steaming water.

“I told you,” Evan said, “we should have just brought the bath down and then fetched water from the well. Mr. Lee could heat it over the fire himself. He’s no maid. You saw him in battle -”

“Mrs. Fraiser insisted,” Donnan protested. “And you’ve seen the man’s hands. Soft and delicate, like a lass. He needs looking out for, a few lucky shots in battle aside -”

“You said he fights like the devil himself,” Evan said flatly.

He and Donnan made it to the bottom of the stairs, heaving and straining, and carried the bath over to the fireplace, set it down with only a bit of splashing.

John stared. “What are you doing?”

“You need to be washed and dressed properly before you meet Himself,” Evan said. Donnan dashed back up the stairs.

“Himself? Himself who?” John asked.

Donnan dashed back down the stairs arms full of fabric and leather. “The Mitchell, that’s who. Now, off with your kit and into the bath. There’s a good lad.” His grinned, cheerfully and unrepentantly condescending.

“But - with you right here?”

Evan and Donnan blinked at him. 

“D’you want us to leave?” Donnan asked. He arched an eyebrow. “Feeling a bit - missish?”

Evan tossed John a bar of handmade soap. “D’ye ken how to pleat a plaid?” He shook out one of the tartan-patterned pieces of fabric, which was just - massive. And in no way resembled a kilt. It looked like it’d be better suited for an Indian woman’s sari. A heavy, woolly sari.

“Ah, no,” John admitted.

“Then bathe. Donnan and I will see to it that you’re presentable for Himself.”

There was little modesty to be had in barracks or in a tent on the battlefield, but one thing John had enjoyed after resigning his commission was his privacy. 

“Don’t throw away my clothes,” he said, and turned away from them. He tugged off his shirt and set it aside.

“Wouldnae dream of it,” Evan said calmly.

John emptied his cargo pockets into his emergency satchel. He took off his paracord bracelet and tucked it into his satchel as well. Hopefully no one had looked too closely at it. Then he took off his belt and put it on top of his shirt.

“I need your belt,” Evan said.

John glanced over his shoulder. Evan had laid out the massive piece of plaid fabric on the floor and was pleating it over and over again with deft hands. Donnan was shaking out a linen shirt. 

“Sure.” John scooped up the belt. “Catch.” He tossed.

Evan snatched it out of midair with barely a glance. “Thanks.”

John untied his boots and kicked them off, toed off his socks and set them with his shirt, then unbuckled his pants, unzipped them, and stepped out.

And heard a snicker.

He twisted around to glance over his shoulder.

Donnan was shaking out a waistcoat, his expression too innocent to be true.

“What?” John demanded.

“Your drawers are so - short. And voluminous.” Donnan swallowed down another snicker.

John looked down at himself. “They’re boxer shorts. It’s what men wear in America.”

Donnan batted his eyelashes guilelessly. “Then all your clothes are the latest American fashion?”

“Yes,” John snapped. “They are.”

Evan rolled his eyes and prodded Donnan in the thigh, said something in Gaelic. Donnan rolled his eyes right back but set about shaking out a dusty coat.

John yanked his boxers off, set them aside, and climbed into the bath water. It was tepid at best. The soap Evan had given him had lavender in it. So he’d be smelling like a girl. Awesome. John scrubbed himself off vigorously, dunked himself and even washed his hair. He was mildly embarrassed by how murky the water was when he climbed out, but when he did climb out, Evan handed him a towel.

Donnan and a kitchen boy were given the task of hauling the bath back up the stairs to empty it.

John toweled himself off as best as he could, then hung the towel beside the fire so it could dry.

“So it’s true, then?” John asked. “Am I really going commando under that -?” He nodded to the kilt.

“I dinnae ken what you mean by  _ commando.  _ We don’t wear drawers under our kilts, no,” Evan said, “but if you prefer -”

“Nope. When in Rome.” John took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s play dress-up. Show me how it’s done.”

John could shrug into the shirt just fine on his own. It was long, almost like an old-fashioned nightshirt, and much more billowy than John preferred. 

“Can’t I wear my own boots and socks?” John asked when Evan held up a pair of very long socks.

Evan looked at John’s comparatively low-ankled boots, then at the tall boots he’d brought. 

_ When in Rome, _ John had said.

The more he blended in, the less likely he’d be recognized by any angry English soldiers. On the other hand, if he needed to play up his alleged Englishness to make a break from the Scottish, he couldn’t look completely native.

“Compromise,” John offered. “Your socks, my boots.”

“Fair enough.” Evan helped him with the long socks, because they had to be fastened at the knee with honest-to-goodness garters to stop them from falling down. 

If this was how women had to wear thigh-high tights and garters for lingerie, John felt very sorry for them and how annoying it was, and he’d never specially ask a woman to wear them again. 

“Now for the plaid.” Evan beckoned John toward the fabric pleated on the floor. “See here - I’ve pleated for you. Deeper pleats mean extra warmth in the winter, aye?”

“Yes.”

“As you can see, I’ve threaded the belt underneath. So lie down, and I’ll show you how it’s fastened.”

John stared down at the fabric. “Lie down?”

Evan nodded. “Aye. Then we fasten it at your waist.”

“Do you do this every morning?”

“Every morning I need to put my kilt on.”

John sighed, then knelt down gingerly, lay back on the fabric. He kept tugging the tails of the shirt down so he didn’t accidentally flash Evan - not that he had anything Evan had never seen before - and wriggling back and forth until he was in just the right spot. Evan walked him through the fastening of the belt, helped John to his feet and showed him how to arrange the fabric appropriately. 

Modern kilts were a single layer, pretty much like a skirt. Actual Highland kilts did remind John of Indian saris. The lower layer was pleated, like a skirt, but the upper layer could be pulled up as a blanket or kind of sleeping bag, like Rodney had done for him initially on the horse. Evan showed John how the upper layer of fabric could also be arranged in a pair of wings on the sides to hold things, like bread.

“So, like pockets,” John said.

Evan nodded.

John smoothed down the fabric. It was thick and warm. Evan explained that the pleats helped keep the rain out. 

And then John noticed. “I’m wearing the same pattern as you. The same tartan.”

“Aye, if you don’t mind,” Evan said cautiously. “We’ve no Campbell tartan to hand. I’d a spare McKay plaid to hand. I dinnae think Clan McKay would mind, as you did us a good turn, helping us in battle as you did. Katie has some Mitchell plaid to hand, if you’d prefer, although if I were you I’d speak to Himself before you did.” Evan darted a glance at Rodney, who was still sleeping.

John glanced at him, too. His color was back to normal, and his breathing was easier. “No, McKay is fine. Thank you for sharing with me.”

Evan smiled. “Now for the rest.”

The rest was a cravat, which Evan knotted carefully at John’s throat, mindful not to pull it too tightly; a waistcoat, which Evan buttoned only halfway before John insisted he could do it himself; and a sporran, which Evan showed John how to hang but he let John do the honors himself. 

“What do I keep in it?” John asked.

Evan shrugged. “Coin. Key. Snuff. Whatever strikes your fancy.”

“What kinds of pockets does the jacket have?” John craned his neck to peer at it.

“Just two small side pockets.” Evan showed him.

The sporran. It basically functioned as pockets. What did John need, more than anything, at any given time? His flint and tinder. Money? No. He had none. He didn’t dare lose his wallet, but he didn’t dare let anyone else see it, either. He’d have to keep it and all his other modern things in his satchel and then just hide the satchel altogether. His flashlight. His emergency blanket. His compass. Those were all modern. The signal mirror could be useful. He tucked his knife into the top of his stocking, the way he’d seen modern Scotsmen wear them.

Although his knife was thoroughly modern-looking too, wasn’t it?

Evan eyed its handle but said nothing.

Emergency med kit. John would keep it all in there. He’d have to find time to sneak away and brush his teeth.

The final touch was the jacket. Evan helped him into it, and then he fussed with the cuffs of John’s shirt.

“Are my sleeves supposed or not supposed to show?” John had seen the ruffly sleeves men had back in the day.

“Not with this shirt,” Evan said. Then his hand on John’s wrist stilled, and he squeezed. “What’s this?”

Oh no. John’s chronograph. It was a kinetic watch, didn’t need winding, kept itself charged based on the movements of his body. It had glow-in-the-dark hands and a tachymeter slide rule around the bezel. It had three sub-dials - the watch’s second hand, plus the minute and hour hands on the chronograph. It would look like witchcraft.

“It’s my watch,” John said slowly.

Evan raised his eyebrows. “Watch?”

“You know, to tell time.”

“A pocket watch?”

“Yeah, but...on my wrist.”

Evan drew back slowly. “The fashion in the Colonies, is it?”

“Absolutely.” John smiled tightly. Then he stepped back, spread his arms. “So, do I pass? Am I presentable enough for Himself?” He glanced at Rodney, who had slept through the entire ordeal.

“Aye, that you are,” Cameron said.

John spun around.

Cameron stood on the stairs. He looked cleaner than when John had seen him last, was wearing a newer jacket and waistcoat, had his plaid pinned up at his left shoulder.

“Come along then, Mr. Lee. ’Tis time for you to meet The Mitchell.”

John glanced back at Rodney.

“I’ll stay with him,” Evan said.

John straightened up. “Okay. Lead on, Cameron Mitchell.” He’d been about to say  _ Lay on, MacDuff, _ but it occurred to him that that might not go over so well.

Cameron turned and headed up the stairs, and John followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think subsequent chapters will be as long but I didn't actually write this in chapters so finding good places to make chapter breaks is tricky. Sorry!


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn’t sure what to expect of a man called The Mitchell, the leader of the entirety of Clan Mitchell. Cameron, the War Chief, was tall and broad and strong, fierce in combat. Surely any man he deferred to was bigger, stronger, fiercer. 

Cameron showed John into an empty study on an upper floor of the keep. It had a heavy wooden desk, some leather-upholstered chairs, and a wall lined with bookshelves and books. There was a lovely handcrafted globe sitting on a small side table, and the entire room was lit with sunlight streaming through two wide glass-paned windows.

“He’ll be with you soon,” Cameron said, and left the room.

There was a piece of paper on the desk. John prowled closer, peered at it. It took him a moment to decipher the upside-down cursive.

September 23, 1744. Same time of year he’d been in before (and after). Two years before the Battle of Culloden.

“John Lee of the Virginia Colony.”

John turned.

The man before him was - definitely related to Cameron. Same blue eyes, though closer-set than Cameron’s. Straight nose. Lighter brown hair with a bit of a red tint to it. Tall. Broad across the shoulders. And suffering from some kind of long-term injury. The bones of his legs from the knees down were twisted and malformed, had probably been broken and never healed right. They forced all his weight to his ankles and the outsides of his feet. He was probably in constant pain.

John, from long practice at never looking anywhere below an Afghani woman’s chin, kept his gaze from straying low.

“At your service, sir,” he said as politely as he could muster.

“I am Fergus Mitchell. My brother Cameron tells me you’re a medic and a minstrel, that you acquitted yourself well in a skirmish against the Redcoats, and that you’ve been kindly to Rodney.”

“Your brother is an honest man,” John offered cautiously.

Fergus Mitchell crossed the room, his gait uneven but his head held high. He skirted around the desk and sat. John remained standing out of habit - he was used to standing till superior officers bade him sit. Right now, Fergus was the closest thing he had to a superior officer, and John knew he’d best mind his manners if he wanted to survive.

“You’re an Englishman from the Colonies. What brings you to Scotland?”

“Family,” John said. “Well - distant family. My mother was a Campbell, and she always spoke fondly of the time she visited here. We wanted to see the countryside, my brother and I. Learn about the place she so loved. And maybe call on some relatives.”

“Which relatives would those be?”

“My mother gave us some names, but she spent most of her life in the New World.”

“Us?” Fergus’s gaze was piercing.

“My brother and I.”

“Cameron said you had a wee brother.”

“Ah, no, not  _ wee _ per se, just - younger.”

“And you’re concerned about his safety.”

“Yes. That’s why I need to get to Inverness as soon as possible. He has a wife and children to get home to, and he’s not safe on his own. He’s not like - me.” SERE training. Stick to the truth as closely as possible. It would ring true. Even though humans were no better at detecting lies than polygraph machines were.

“How came you to be so near Inverness when the Campbell lands are in Argyll, a good hundred miles to the South?”

“The standing stones - the  _ Rionnag Gaeta,” _ John said quickly, which was true, in a way. “There’s nothing like them in the New World. My brother wanted to see.”

“And yet there are dozens of stone circles between here and Argyll.”

“But not the  _ Rionnag Gaeta. _ Our mother - she told us how the sun rises between the stones on the autumnal equinox. She always talked about how beautiful it was, and how she wished we could see it.” John looked away. He hated invoking his mother’s memory like this. His father had done it all the time, as a weapon.

_ What would your mother think of your decision? _

_ Your mother would be so disappointed in you. _

_ If only your mother could see you now. _

Fergus studied John for a long time.

“And how was it that you came to be in the company of one of His Majesty’s Dragoons, dressed in only your shirtsleeves and breeches?”

John closed his eyes, swallowed hard. SERE training had included a sexual assault resistance component, and John had attended to it as well as he’d attended to the others, but he and the rest of his male cohorts shared a tacit understanding: it would never happen to them. Then he opened his eyes and met Fergus’s gaze squarely, held it. 

“My brother and I - we’d been at the standing stones. We’d been there all night, waiting for the sun to rise. We had too much to drink and too little to eat and - I don’t know what happened. I fell asleep. Passed out. Something. After the sun rose. When I woke, my brother was nowhere to be seen. I went searching for him, and I heard gunshots. Redcoats. They chased me. I ran. I was lost and confused, and so I went looking for water. I could have a drink, clear my head. And there he was. Captain William Sheppard.”

Black Bill. Who’d looked so much like Dave.

“He attacked me. Put his hands on me. D-divested me of my clothes.” John curled his hands into fists.

“Cameron said you fought well in combat.”

John sucked in a breath. Was this what women felt like, when they had to disclose that they’d been assaulted?

“This wasn’t combat.”

“And yet here you stand.”

“It took me a moment to - regain my wits,” John said carefully. “And then I fought back. If not for Mr. Lorne, I wouldn’t be standing here. Captain Sheppard had drawn his pistol.”

“You mean to tell me an English officer decided to accost and rape another Englishman for no good reason?”

“I didn’t realize there was ever a good reason to rape someone,” John drawled with as much icy hauteur as he could muster.

Fergus inclined his head in acknowledgment. “A poor choice of words.”

“I’m sure you, better than anyone, understand that the mere fact of being an English officer does not also make a man an English gentleman,” John said.

Fergus nodded again. “So all you seek is passage to Inverness.”

John tamped down on his rising temper. “Yes, sir.” 

“There’s a tinker who brings his wares to the market in Inverness once a week. He’ll be by in a few days. Mr. Petrie. Sometimes he has room for passengers. You’re welcome to the hospitality of Castle Leoch and Clan Mitchell until then.”

“A few days,” John echoed warily. “How many?”

“Four.”

“Saturday, then?”

“Yes, Saturday.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your hospitality.” John was on thin ice and he knew it. His story wasn’t great. The irritating thing was that the parts that were completely true, like his crazy sexual predator ancestor, were the parts that seemed the most incredible.

Fergus reached out, opened one of the bottles of ink on the desk, picked up a pen, and John took that as a sign of his dismissal. He inclined his head politely and turned to go, and then Fergus said,

“A minstrel, are you? You should play for us tonight. After supper.”

“If it pleases you, sir.”

“Aye, it does.”

“After supper it will be then, sir.”

And John fled, as quickly and calmly as he could. He made it down the stairs before he realized he was completely lost. John forced himself to stand still, take a deep breath, and reach out with his senses. Noise. People. John turned and followed the voices and clamor and human din until he reached a room.

Full of women.

They were sitting in a wide circle, some of the women sewing, some weaving, some folding fabric, some spinning yarn.

They fell silent, stared at him.

He inclined his head politely, scrambling for era-appropriate language. What he came up with was more suited to a Jane Austen novel reject. “Apologies, good women. I do not wish to intrude. I am - lost.”

They stared at him. A couple of them whispered behind their hands to each other, never taking their eyes off of him.

John cleared his throat and added, “If one of you could be so good as to point me in the direction of the kitchens.” Should he try to fake a British accent? Would they notice if he got it wrong? Did they even know who he was?

One woman - slender, with red-brown hair and bright blue eyes, narrow shoulders and a pointy nose - rose up and crossed the room to him, bobbed a curtsy. She didn’t meet his gaze, kept her shoulders hunched.

“The kitchens, sir?”

“Yes, I’m staying in the charmer’s surgery. Tending to Rodney Mitchell.”

The woman lifted her head sharply. “Rodney? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” John said, alarmed by the alarm in her voice. “I’m just - looking out for him. He got a little knocked around by some Redcoats.”

“I’ll show you to him straightaway, sir,” the woman said.

“John Lee,” he said. “My name is John Lee.”

The woman flicked a glance at his kilt, then back up at him. “Catriona Brown, sir. Katie, to my friends and family.”

“Miss Brown,” John said politely. He stepped back, gestured. “Lead the way.”

She was a better tour guide than either Donnan or Cameron had been, explained how all the hallways interconnected, pointed out some tapestries and wall hangings and interesting torch sconces as landmarks so he could find his way again.

She led him straight to the kitchen. This time there wasn’t staring and dead silence, probably because John was dressed properly and also because the kitchen staff had seen him before, but some of the maids and boys cast him wary glances as he crossed the kitchen to the stairs.

Katie followed.

John got to the bottom of the stairs and saw that Rodney’s cot was empty, the blanket gathered in a heap at the foot of the mattress. John scanned the room, but there was no sign of Rodney - or anyone else. John spun on his heel and dashed back up the stairs. He scanned the kitchen, searching for Janet, but all he saw were bonnets and old-fashioned dresses.

“Janet?”

“Mrs. Fraiser isn’t here,” a kitchen boy informed him. 

“Where’s young Mr. Mitchell?” John asked, since that was the best way to differentiate him from The Mitchell and War Chief Mitchell.

The boy frowned. “Who?”

“Rodney,” John clarified.

“Oh.” The boy shrugged. “He woke up, he left.”

“Left to go where?”

The boy shrugged again. “The smithy, most likely.”

“The  _ smithy?” _ John echoed, thinking of Rodney’s shoulder.

“Aye,” Katie said cautiously. “Rodney’s a master smith.”

“Where is this smithy?” John asked.

Katie flinched, and John realized he was probably using his  _ officer-to-enlisted _ voice. “Sorry. Just - Rodney injured his shoulder and he shouldn’t use it.”

Katie’s eyes went wide. “The smithy is in the courtyard. This way.” She turned and left the kitchen, and John followed right on her heels.

The courtyard was quick to reach - through a side door and out into the chaos that John had first witnessed. He scanned the bustling crowd - it was still just as busy as when he’d first arrived - and then he heard Rodney’s familiar voice.

“On the edge of the anvil, eejit. At an angle. Dinnae ye learn this as a bairn?”

“No,” Donnan retorted. “I’m no smith. Me da raised me to be a horse breaker.”

Smoke rising from one of the stalls at the edge of the courtyard marked the smithy. John made a beeline for it. Donnan, Rodney, and a teenage boy stood beside an anvil and forge. Donnan had a hammer in one hand and was clutching a piece of red-hot metal with tongs in the other. The teenage boy was clutching a pair of bellows to his chest and peering over them nervously at Rodney.

Rodney was halfway shrugged out of the sling on his right shoulder when he saw John.

“Are you insane?” John demanded. He reached out, slapped a hand on Rodney’s forehead. “You just had a fever and an infected wound. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Rodney batted his hand away. “Away,  _ sassenach. _ Who d’ye think you are, my wife?”

“No,” John said, “because as a medical professional I want to keep you alive, but your wife would  _ kill you _ for behaving like this.”

_ “Sassenach’s _ got a point,” Donnan began, and Rodney snapped at him in Gaelic.

Katie pushed past John and caught Rodney’s arm. “Rodney, if you were injured in battle, you mustn’t do yourself further harm. Listen to the charmer and rest.”

“Mrs. Fraiser told you to listen to me too,” John reminded him.

Donnan had shoved the hot metal back into the forge and handed the hammer off to the teenage boy - apprentice, perhaps? - and was trying to slink away when Rodney rounded on him, caught him by the braid and yanked him in close.

Donnan yelped like a wounded cat.

“And where d’you think you’re going?” Rodney demanded.

“To the stables, where I belong,” Donnan said, squirming.

Katie tugged on Rodney’s good arm. “Please, listen to the charmer. Rest.”

Rodney frowned down at her. The line of his mouth was intriguing. Then he glared at John, his blue eyes flashing and bright. “All right. I’ll rest. But I’ll have you know, I know my own body better than any charlatan with songs and herbs. Also, using a woman to fight your battles is despicable.”

Katie’s eyes lit up. “You’ll rest then?”

Rodney re-settled his shoulder sling pointedly. “Aye, I will.”

“Good.”

Donnan slipped away.

“Now that you’re awake,” John said, “I can check your shoulder over properly, and also your bandage. If you’ve torn those stitches, I’m not going to sedate you when I replace them.”

“And after that, you’ll rest?” Katie asked.

Rodney heaved a much put-upon sigh. “Yes, Wife Number One and Wife Number Two.” He pushed past John and headed back into the castle, for the surgery.

John followed, as did Katie.

Kitchen maids and kitchen boys scattered from Rodney’s path; apparently he had a reputation in the kitchen. Rodney plopped himself down on the cot he’d been sleeping on and immediately went to shrug off his sling.

“No. I’m doing it,” John said. So far the only thing in his life that had gone right since he’d fallen through time was his medical care of Rodney, and he wasn’t going to let that go sideways.

Katie hovered at the bottom of the stairs.

John held Rodney’s arm in place while he unfastened the bandage - he’d have to retie it, because it was losing tension - and then he started to ease Rodney’s jacket off. Belatedly, he remembered that men didn’t go taking off their jackets and waistcoats till they were alone. He cleared his throat.

“If you don’t mind, Miss Brown. A bit of privacy for me and the patient.”

“Of course.” Katie, blushing, bobbed a curtsy and then hurried up the stairs.

“I’m fine,” Rodney said.

“You said that to me before you fell off your horse,” John said, “so forgive me if I don’t believe you.” He unbuttoned Rodney’s waistcoat deftly, and he was glad this wasn’t a battlefield emergency, that he didn’t have to cut Rodney’s clothes off of him, because who knew how easy it would be for Rodney to obtain new clothes? Rodney was at least cooperative as John helped him out of the waistcoat, and then John knelt down, pushed the fabric of Rodney’s shirt aside so he could see the wound in his side. 

The stitches looked like they were still holding, and there was no redness or swelling. Good.

John rose. “Now I need to check your shoulder. Off with your shirt.”

Even though he was using his best professional bedside manner tone, Rodney blushed, and John wondered if he’d underestimated Eighteenth Century modesty. Then an uglier thought occurred to him, and John said,

“I’m not going to - accost you. Like Black Bill did to me.”

Rodney twisted around and scowled at him. “I know that.” And he yanked his shirt over his head without further ado.

No wonder he’d been blushing. It wasn’t about old-fashioned sensibilities. It was about his scars. His entire back was a mess of scars.

John swallowed hard. “Flogging?”

“You know it?”

“Not - personally.” John reached out carefully, checking Rodney’s shoulder, searching the skin for discoloration or bruising.

“Black Bill. Flogged me twice in the space of a week. Might’ve done it again, if he’d thought I’d have survived a third.” Rodney stared straight ahead, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

“Hey, I need you to relax. I need to check your range of motion.” John patted Rodney’s shoulder cautiously. “Okay?”

“What is  _ okay?” _

“It’s - American. For  _ fine _ or  _ all right.” _

“Aye, I ken. Okay. I’ll relax.” The tension in Rodney’s muscles eased barely a fraction.

John narrated carefully, telling Rodney in advance how he was going to manipulate Rodney’s arm and palpate the joint so he could get a sense of how the repaired dislocation was healing. He asked Rodney for an honest assessment of his pain levels, which Rodney provided. John wasn’t sure if Rodney was low-balling on the pain scale out of a sense of machismo or culture or if he was really just that tough. Probably a combination of the three.

“Let me rub some ointment on the joint - it’ll help ease the muscle inflammation.” John had spotted some bottles of mint ointment that were as close to Icy Hot as he was going to get in this century. “I’ll warm up my hands first.” He grabbed the bottle off of one of the shelves.

Rodney half-turned to look at him. “You don’t think my scars are hideous?”

“They’re just scars. I have scars. Not like that, but.” John rubbed his hands together, then scooped a dab of ointment. “Here goes.”

“You aren’t afraid to touch my back?”

“No. Unless - does it hurt?” John snatched his hands back, alarmed.

“No. It was years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You don’t even know what happened.”

“I’m sorry you were hurt.”

Rodney glanced at John out of the corner of his eye again. “I suppose you’d ken better than most. You know what Black Bill is like.”

Something in John’s gut twisted at the thought of Black Bill assaulting Rodney like he’d tried to do to John.

Rodney said, “I’d been out in the fields, working, and I heard horses. Heard my sister cry out after that, and there he was, Black Bill. Had his filthy hands on her. Told her to submit to him, or he’d kill me.”

What followed was a tale that was tired and familiar in its broad strokes - John had heard about the atrocities the English had perpetrated on the Scottish, Irish, and Welsh over the centuries - but horrifying in its details, in its presence, because Rodney was here, in front of John, had suffered those atrocities firsthand. Black Bill had had Rodney flogged in front of his sister to motivate her into not fighting while he raped her. Rodney had insisted his sister not give in, and then he’d been struck on the head, passed out.

“When I woke, I was in a chicken cart, on the way to Fort William.”

“I’m sorry,” John said helplessly.

Rodney said, sourly, “Chickens are terrible company.”

John wasn’t sure if Rodney was joking and trying to lighten the mood or if that was just how he saw the world. He said, “I’ll take your word for it.”

Rodney huffed but said nothing further, staring into the fireplace.

John finished rubbing in the ointment, warned Rodney to be  _ very good _ to his shoulder, and helped him back into his clothes. He re-tied the bandage, and Rodney stood up.

“Do I have my wife’s permission to go attend to my duties?”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes. Go.”

Rodney started to go, then paused, turned. “Thank you,” he said, utterly sincere. “You’ve gentle hands, for an Englishman.” And he hurried up the stairs before John could respond.

John stood there for a moment, not sure what he was supposed to do with himself now. And then he remembered. He was supposed to play music for The Mitchell himself, Fergus Mitchell, Laird of Leoch. 

What could he play that wouldn’t offend everyone within hearing?

His guitar was where Donnan had left it, resting against the wall in its soft case. He picked it up and carried it over to the cot in the corner, the one he planned on claiming as his own bed, and sat down. He laid the case across his knees, unzipped it, drew the guitar out.

He checked it over carefully, mindful of what it had been through, him running through the forest and being slammed against a tree and then jostling along on the back of a horse. Compared to some guitars he’d seen, with fancy abalone inlays along the fretboard and pick guard, his guitar was a homely thing, but it was  _ his. _ When he found a scuff mark near the sound hole, something in his chest tightened, but he managed to buff the mark away with his sleeve. He made sure it was in tune, and then he tested a few chords, pondered a few songs.

He shrugged off the jacket and set it aside, rolled his shirtsleeves up because the cuffs were getting in the way, and played a little more. What songs could he possibly play that wouldn’t, say, ruin the space-time continuum or whatever? Obviously traditional and folk songs were in order, but what guarantee did he have that any of them predated the time he was in now? Had he already ruined the space-time continuum by the mere fact of traveling backward? Or was he always supposed to have traveled back? 

John sighed and set the guitar aside, scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d never imagined he’d rue the day he’d ignored a couple of computer techs when they squabbled over different theories of time travel.

His head was throbbing. His throat was parched. When had he last eaten or drunk? They’d reached Castle Leoch before lunch. John glanced at his watch. Three in the afternoon. When was supper?

No matter. He could get in a nap. A nap was just fine. A totally legitimate use of his time now that he was a civilian.

John lay back. No. Not a nap. He’d rest his eyes for a minute.

Just a minute.


	4. Chapter 4

“Och,  _ Sassenach, _ wake up!”

John opened his eyes.

Evan stood over him, concern marring his brow.

And then John snapped fully awake, groping for the nearest item that could be used as a weapon.

Evan threw his jacket at him. “It’s time for supper. Best to be in the hall before Himself is there.”

Right. Supper. John’s stomach growled at him. He stood up, pulled on his jacket. Evan tied on his cravat and attempted to smooth down his hair and a bunch of other motherly things that had John squirming away in embarrassment.

“I can dress myself,” John said sharply.

“Do it faster,” Evan said. He gestured at John’s guitar. “Pack it up and let’s go.” Then he paused, peered at it. “Are those strings made of metal?”

John nodded. “Yes. I play steel strings.”

“Steel?” Evan drew back from the guitar warily. “It must be a very precious instrument.”

“Very,” John said warily, unsure how to explain his guitar was a cheap thing, and then he realized. Old violin strings were referred to as  _ cat gut. _ Whatever guitar strings used to be made of, it wasn’t nylon or steel. Nylon was a twentieth-century invention, and steel was expensive. He zipped it back into its case, and then he followed Evan up the stairs and through the kitchens and into the main hall.

Multiple tables were arranged in rows with benches on either side, where men and women in finer clothes - courtiers, or the Scottish clan equivalent - were waiting to be seated. Fergus stood at the head table, a woman to his right, Cameron to his left, a couple of empty chairs at either end.

Evan scooted into place at a table with Rodney, Donnan, and some men and women John had seen around the castle but couldn’t even begin to name, and John stood beside him, waiting.

Fergus took his seat, and then Cameron and the woman - presumably Fergus’s wife - sat as well, and then everyone else sat. Maids began to move through the tables with platters of food. Katie was among them, and she lingered at Rodney’s elbow as she served him meat and vegetables, smiling at him. He was attempting to eat left-handed and looked rather grumbly for it, didn’t notice her, and her expression fell.

Donnan smiled at her hopefully, but she ignored him. Evan looked aggrieved for a moment, but then he smiled at her and thanked her deliberately, and she brightened. John made it a point to be polite to her as well. Then he took a close look at his plate and realized that he didn’t know what anything was. Meat. Some kind of vegetable or tuber. No discernable fruit. All in a thick brown sauce.

Yes, John had eaten a lot of strange things in the line of duty, and also some tasteless and disgusting things. He was suddenly hyperaware of the hygiene deficiencies in the mid-eighteenth century, and he remembered how every time he was stationed in a different country, he would be sick to his stomach for the first week while his body adjusted. That was in an era with bottled water.

A kitchen boy came around serving wine. Right. The drink of choice when the water wasn’t always clean. John couldn’t afford to drink nothing but alcohol, even with heavy food in his stomach. It was the oldest trick in the book - ply a subject with food and drink and continue to interrogate.

John was just about to brave his first bite of traditional Highland food when a shadow fell over him. Everyone around him went silent, and he looked up. Cameron stood beside him.

“The Laird requests your presence at the high table,” Cameron said formally. “You are our guest, and he appreciates that you’ll be sharing your music with us.”

John darted a glance at Evan, who nodded in the direction of the high table, gaze pointed.

“I appreciate the Laird’s generosity,” John said. He rose up, grabbed his guitar from where it was resting against the wall, and followed Cameron back to the high table. He was very surprised when Cameron gave up his seat on Fergus’s left hand and took the empty chair at the end of the table for himself.

John thanked him, bewildered, and leaned his guitar against the wall before he sat. A serving boy whisked Cameron’s place setting away from John and settled it in front of its rightful owner, and another serving boy brought John the plate from where he’d been seated before.

“Mr. John Lee of the Virginia Colony,” Fergus said, “let me introduce you to my wife, Amelia.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, My Lady.” John flashed her a brief smile.

“Welcome to Castle Leoch, Mr. Lee. Is there a Mrs. Lee?”

“There was,” John said, and swallowed hard, thinking of Nancy. “But she is not among us.”

Amelia’s expression turned sympathetic. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, but it was a lifetime ago,” John said, and that was far too true.

“Tell us, Mr. Lee,” Fergus said, “what is it you do, in Virginia?”

“I’m a medic, primarily.”

“And also a minstrel?” Amelia asked.

“Yes, though not by profession. My mother was quite musical, and she encouraged the same in me and my brother.”  _ Stick to the truth,  _ John told himself. 

The food was good. Well, the bannocks were good, and if John used them to sop up the sauce, that helped. Usually his answer to surviving questionable foreign food was to pour hot sauce on it to kill the taste, bolt it down, and then chase it with milk or some kind of sweet juice. He’d convinced more than one local grandmother that he adored her cooking with that tactic. Unfortunately, there were no pepper shakers on the table for John to use.

“Your mother was a Campbell, yes?” Amelia was a beautiful woman, with golden hair, fine features, and bright blue eyes.

John swallowed quickly. “Yes, though not close to her Scottish kin, being born and raised in the New World as she was. She visited Scotland and loved it very much.”

“Is your father also a medic?” Fergus asked.

“No. My father is a tobacco farmer,” John said. That much was sort of true - the Lees of Virginia were notable for making their fortune in the New World with tobacco plantations, in addition to military and political service. There was a song from a musical about it that John had hated and Dave had sometimes sung just to annoy him.

_ Dave. _

“But there are medicinal uses for tobacco,” John said.

Amelia smiled at him. “We are much blessed to have a new charmer in residence, so soon after Widow McLachlan passed, God rest her soul.”

John darted a glance at Fergus. Did Amelia not know John was leaving with Mr. Petrie the Tinkerer on Saturday?

Fergus poured John a glass of wine. “Cameron was wise, to bring you along as he did.”

“I do believe he was, if only for young Mr. Mitchell’s sake.” John thanked Fergus for the wine and sipped at it, barely drinking any. He had to keep a clear head. Especially if he was expected to perform. Would it be the musical equivalent of Scheherazade? So long as his music or his medical talents pleased Fergus, he’d be allowed to live for another night?

Playing music with his mother and brother was one thing. Playing music with some of the men and women he served with, killing time between missions in a dusty tent, was another.

What was being asked of him was just a little bit terrifying. John’s voice wasn’t especially lovely, at least not compared to Dave’s, but their mother had taught him to carry a tune, to stay on key, to listen well enough to his brother to harmonize. When he’d played for fellow soldiers, he’d played songs they knew and liked, and inevitably someone would join in.

Tonight it would be just him.

“Young Mr. Mitchell?” Amelia echoed.

Cameron said, “Rodney.”

Amelia nodded, though she still looked a little confused. “Aye, Rodney.”

The Mitchell eyed John warily, looked ready to start in on another round of interrogation. John deflected for as long as he could, asking about Amelia’s family. She was a Fraiser on her mother’s side but was proud to be a Mitchell. She was the eldest of three sisters and two brothers, and her eldest brother would succeed Lord Lovat as the Chief of Clan Fraiser when the time came - though Heaven forbid it come too soon.

John skated through the meal on bannocks, the tiniest sips of wine, and vegetables. For most of the meal Cameron and Fergus were silent, working on their food, passing each other wine, and scanning the faces in the great hall. The hall itself was filled with a pleasant din - friendly chatter, cutlery on dishes, the occasional burst of laughter.

John knew his skating was done when Fergus cleared his throat and rose up. The man had been knocking back wine like a champ all evening - John suspected to dull the pain in his legs, noted the faintest wince when Fergus stood. Fergus didn’t have to clear his throat or tap on the side of his wineglass with his knife. Silence fell immediately, all eyes on him.

“Tonight, we are honored with the presence of John Lee.  _ Sassenach _ though he may be, he’s a talented charmer, and he has graciously agreed to favor us with some of his songs.”

Being a clan chief obviously warped a man’s sense of language, because  _ agree _ was a very generous description of how John had come to this moment, rising up from his seat and bowing to the polite applause before he went to scoop up his guitar. He unzipped it as quietly as possible and then stepped around the high table to the stool a serving maid placed in the middle of the gaping chasm of space between the high table and the rest of the dining tables.

Fergus sat back down, and everyone’s gazes transferred from him to John.

John slipped the guitar strap over his head, tested the strings even though he knew they were in tune. 

First things first. Traditional songs. The Bonnie Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond. John’s voice was tight with tension on the first verse, but hell, he’d flown into enemy airspace with a handful of other PJs to get half a dozen injured men out of a Taliban POW camp. This was nothing in comparison. This was a song. Or two. Or three.

Since no one booed or threw food at him (performance etiquette had much improved over the centuries, or perhaps become insincere and more polite), John figured he was doing all right. He chanced a glance over his shoulder at the head table when he started in on the Skye Boat Song using the lyrics he’d learned from Daniel, lest the more traditional version cause him some trouble. Fergus and Cameron’s expressions were unreadable, but Amelia was smiling, pleased.

John didn’t know the actual version of the traditional version of Young Hunting, which he knew was a long ballad, but Nancy had had a particular taste for murder ballads, so instead he sang Nick Cave’s Henry Lee, which he’d learned just for her.

Donnan was quite possibly very drunk, because he was swaying along with the slow guitar arpeggios wearing a grin wholly inappropriate to the mood of a song about a woman who was spurned by a man, stabbed him, and then threw him down a well.

The intensity of the focus was intimidating, but as John paused for a brief sip of wine, he remembered that music in this era was a luxury. The only music people had was music they could make for themselves or that they could, in rare instances, pay for the performance of. 

Rodney, he noticed, was watching him closely as well, eyes narrowed critically as he segued into Simon & Garfunkel’s Scarborough Fair. Not strictly traditional, but traditional enough that he could get away with it. Was it too English? Was that Rodney’s unspoken criticism? 

As soon as Rodney noticed John watching him back, he frowned, averted his gaze for a second, then caught John’s gaze and held it again, lifting his chin defiantly.

When the song ended - the particularly complex guitar work earned him louder applause than before - John chanced another glance at Fergus, who gestured for him to continue. 

Was this another ploy, force John to sing himself parched so he drank a lot of wine to recover and then drunkenly spilled his secrets? 

Yes, he had secrets. No, he wasn’t an English spy. But he couldn’t possibly begin to explain the truth of his predicament to people for whom Newton was a distant, possibly mostly unknown figure.

John’s next best options for even remotely period-appropriate music were some Johnny Cash covers of ballads - Long Black Veil, Hung My Head (but certainly not A Boy Named Sue). God’s Gonna Cut You Down seemed a bit heavy-handed for after-supper entertainment, so John went for Cash’s cover of Bob Marley’s Redemption Song.

Judging by the nod Fergus had given him before he started in on this song, this was John’s last number, so he made sure to do his best. He brightened his voice. Sure, the song mentioned pirates and bottomless pits, but he mentioned songs of freedom, and the song was repetitive and simple enough that people started joining in on the choruses. John almost stumbled over  _ atomic energy, _ but no one noticed his misstep, so he kept on singing, even repeated a couple of verses and choruses so more people could join in.

He was on his third iteration of  _ Old pirates, yes, they rob I,  _ when he saw a man in a kilt slip into the great hall through a side door, plate in hand. He was sopping up sauce with a bannock, and he halted midstep so abruptly that he nearly dropped his plate. Then he fixed John with an intense scrutiny that made him stumble over the lyrics of his song.

Everyone else was humming along with the tune, if not outright singing the lyrics, so they didn’t notice, but then the man - square-jawed, narrow-chinned, dark-haired, blue-eyed; did  _ everyone _ in Scotland have blue eyes? - began to mouth along the words to the chorus, and John felt a shiver down his spine.

But then the song ended and people were cheering and roaring, and John rose, took his bows. Fergus rose to his feet as well, applauding, and Cameron and Amelia joined him. Fergus raised his glass in a toast to John, and John felt like he’d passed some kind of important test in Fergus’s eyes.

He also had the sense that he’d failed a test in that strange man’s eyes.

When John glanced at that side door, the strange man was gone.

The end of John’s performance signaled the end of supper. Courtiers drifted away from the tables, bidding each other good night or heading into other rooms to continue their conversations. Servants darted into the mix, clearing away plates (and no doubt the boys were devouring the edible leftovers). John zipped his guitar back into its case and started for the kitchens. He was halfway there when a hand came down on his arm. He spun around, startled.

“You sing well,  _ Sassenach,” _ Rodney said. He clapped John awkwardly on the shoulder and then vanished into the crowd.

John stared at the place where he’d stood for a moment, baffled, but then he shook himself out and continued on through the kitchens to the surgery.

One day down. Three to go.


	5. Chapter 5

Life at the castle began early. John was still an early riser out of habit, but the last few days had been stressful and tumultuous, and even with yesterday’s nap he still felt groggy when the noise from the kitchens jolted him out of sleep. He’d fallen asleep in his shirtsleeves, having abandoned the jacket, waistcoat, kilt, socks, and boots. His first thought was for a shower or at least the chance to shave and brush his teeth. He’d gone grubby out in the desert before. 

And then he remembered. No running water. The stench of the chamber pot in the corner. John wrinkled his nose. How did he go about getting water? He sat on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his face and trying to chafe himself into wakefulness. The mess of plaid fabric on the floor looked far too complicated to deal with. All those pleats. 

Did no one around here wear actual trousers ever?

John was still staring at the plaid and trying to remember how Evan had pleated it and where his belt had gotten to when a too-bright voice pierced his haze of thought. 

_ “Maidinn mhath, Sassenach!” _ Donnan descended the stairs, carrying a large basin with a cloth bundle in it and a jug of water. He was fully dressed and his long hair was in a neat braid. 

He set the basin and jug on the table. 

“Good morning,” John said warily. 

Donnan lifted the cloth bundle out of the basin and parted the cloth. Inside the cloth was a scrap of highly polished metal - a mirror - and what looked like shaving implements. Donnan then poured some water from the jug and into the basin. 

“Mrs. Fraiser says I’m to be your man until you leave,” he said. He brandished a straight razor and a bar of soap. 

That woke John up. “I’m not letting you anywhere near my carotid artery with anything even remotely resembling a blade. I can shave on my own, thanks.” John had shaved with his service knife more than once. 

Donnan frowned. “But Mrs. Fraiser said -”

“If you want to make yourself useful, you can pleat the plaid.” John stood up, stretched. 

Donnan eyed him, then nodded and crossed the room, knelt down and set about rearranging the plaid. John fished his satchel out from under his mattress and dug in it for his toothbrush and toothpaste. If he was judicious with his toothpaste he would have enough to use till he got back to his own time. If that was even possible. 

No. Don’t think about that. 

John shoved the satchel back into place - Donnan was focused on pleating the plaid - and went back to the basin. He splashed his face, brushed his teeth, then stripped off his shirt and used the bar of lavender soap Evan had given him to give himself a hand-bath as best as he could.

Donnan gave him a fresh shirt once he was done washing himself with a cloth and soap, for which John was grateful. Once he was in his shirt, socks, and boots, he lay back on the plaid and belted it on. 

He used the soap, mirror, and straight razor to shave as neatly as he could. Neither Donnan nor Rodney sported facial hair. Evan and Cameron both had short beards and goatees (Cameron’s was reddish, which John had heard was an Irish-Celtic thing). John wasn’t going to attempt to cultivate any fancy facial hair to blend in. After so many years in the Air Force he preferred being clean-shaven, and he was going to stick with it.

Once he was done shaving, he finished dressing, putting on the cravat, waistcoat, and jacket. Donnan cleared away the bowl, jug, and shaving implements, and told John to go see Janet, on account of his needing breakfast and her wanting to speak to him.

John nodded and added, before Donnan was out of earshot, “Thanks. For your help with the plaid.”

Donnan grinned. “As I said - I’m your man till you’re gone.” And he trotted up the stairs.

John followed at a more sedate pace. The kitchen was already busy and bustling, the ovens and fires roaring.

Janet was in the middle of it all, conductor of a mad orchestra of flour and cast iron pans.

“Good morning,” John said.

She turned to him. “Good. You’re awake.” She thrust a bowl of off-white mush at him. “Eat your porridge. Lady Amelia wishes for you to entertain her and the other ladies of the court this morning.”

John, who’d been trying to figure out how to eat the dubious porridge, paused. “Entertain?” 

“With your music.” Janet handed him a spoon. “Be quick about it.”

John was pretty sure he’d exhausted his repertoire of period-appropriate songs the night before. “What kinds of music will they want?”

“The usual kind,” Janet said. “Love ballads and adventures, if you know them.”

Love ballads. John didn’t know many traditional ballads in the full story sense, but he did know love songs. He ate a mouthful of porridge. It was bland but not bad. Still warm. He nodded. “Love songs I can do.” 

So this was his fate, for the next three days. Scheherazade with music. What other songs could he sing, that wouldn’t get him into trouble? 

Donnan cleared his throat. 

Janet arched an eyebrow at him but said nothing.

John swallowed down the porridge. “It’s good. Thanks for keeping it warm.”

Donnan cleared his throat again.

“What?” Janet asked.

“If I’m John’s man, shouldn’t I taste his food before he eats it?” Donnan asked.

Janet cast John a sardonic look. John huffed and pushed his bowl of porridge across the table to Donnan, who fell upon it like a starving man.

“You are too soft-hearted.” Janet shook her head, amused, and handed John a handful of bannocks. “Eat, and then go see to Lady Amelia.”

John nodded. “ASAP.” 

Donnan, halfway through demolishing the porridge, paused.  _ “Eh-sap. _ ”

“As soon as possible,” John translated. 

Donnan mouthed it to himself, testing the sound. 

“Let me go get my guitar,” John said to Janet, “and we can get to it, making music.” He turned and trotted back down the stairs to the surgery. 

Donnan didn’t follow him, caught up in his food as he was. John made a mental note of that, grabbed his guitar, and headed back up to the kitchen. Donnan was batting his eyelashes at Janet, trying to convince her to give him more porridge. Janet was unmoved, instead fixing up a flask of wine and some more bannocks with jam and cream for John to take with him.

“You’ll need your voice and your strength,” she said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Why my strength?” John asked.

Donnan scooped up the tray, caught John by the wrist, and led him through the castle before Janet could reply.

John remembered that time he’d watched  _ Gladiator _ , how Maximus had been escorted to a cell beneath the Colosseum and held there for a woman to come see him, and she’d commented that the Matrons of Rome would have paid good money to  _ have _ a fine gladiator. Surely Highland women didn’t do the same thing with minstrels. The past always seemed to be a baffling mixture of prudishness and lasciviousness that John never quite understood.

Donnan led John up, up, up the stairs, higher and higher in the main part of the keep. John remembered that unplanned guided tour at Castle Leoch, how the family had residential quarters in a bigger space in the keep that was more secure than other quarters for even important guests. 

John had never appreciated the beauty of a living castle - whitewashed and painted walls, the wall hangings and ornate sconces, the colors and light and  _ emotion. _ This castle was a home. Lived-in. It belonged to people, and they’d left their marks.

Donnan stepped onto the fourth landing and crossed the carpeted stone floor, knocked on a heavy wooden door.

“Who is it?” Amelia asked.

“Donnan Maxwell, milady. I bring you the  _ sassenach _ minstrel, for your pleasure.”

“Come in,” Amelia called.

Donnan pushed the door open, and there they were, a group of finely-dressed ladies, all armed with embroidery hoops, needles, and thread, or knitting needles and spindles or other complicated implements for making clothes and things. They were arrayed in a circle, most on comfortable chairs, a few on footstools. Some of the ladies, John noted, who were less finely-dressed, tended to be seated on footstools. Handmaids, perhaps? Katie was among them.

“Mr. Lee,” Amelia said, nodding graciously at him. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Donnan scampered across the room, pulled up three stools - one for John, one for himself, and one for the tray of wine and bannocks (which he’d miraculously not spilled in his caper up the stairs).

“I don’t know very many Scottish songs.” John cleared his throat nervously, perched on the stool Donnan had brought for him. “I used up most of the Scottish songs I know last night.”

Amelia, who had an embroidery hoop on her lap, smiled at him. “We are very interested to hear traditional American songs.”

“Right. Traditional American songs.” Love songs, Janet had said. John drew his guitar out of its case, tuned it quickly. He noticed how the women eyed the guitar case warily when he unzipped it. He’d spent so much of his youth learning Johnny Cash songs, and there were so many to choose from. 

He cleared his throat. “This is called You Are My Sunshine.”

The women smiled at each other, brightened, and leaned in to listen.

_ The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping _ _   
_ _ I dreamed I held you in my arms _ _   
_ _ But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken _ _   
_ _ So I hung my head and I cried _

John had grown up hearing the cheery version of You Are My Sunshine so often that he’d forgotten Johnny Cash’s singular ability to make a simple children’s song into a heartbroken anthem. Several of the women blinked, alarmed, so he transitioned to the chorus.

_ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine _ _   
_ _ You make me happy when skies are gray _ _   
_ _ You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you _ _   
_ _ Please don’t take my sunshine away _

There, the women looked relieved. Cheery song. John repeated the chorus one more time and ended the song on a flourish.

“Is that what sunshine is like in America?” one of the women asked.

“Sunshine in America is - complicated.” John took a sip of wine - Janet had watered it down, good - and bolted down half a jam-covered bannock, mind racing. What song could he play next? What song was definitely happier?

Love songs, love songs. He’d have to go beyond Johnny Cash. Angeles by Elliott Smith had been one of his favorites to play because he really liked the ornate guitar work in it, but it was about Los Angeles and also hundred dollar bills. Songs completely out of their cultural reference would bore them fast. Seven Bridges Road by The Eagles was beautiful and also had great guitar work, but it was impossible to pull off solo, because half of the beauty in the song was the vocal harmonies. John at least always had Dave for it.

No. Not an option. Annie’s Song, by John Denver. Pretty guitar work, good for one voice.

“This is called Annie’s song.”

One of the other women perked up. “Is Annie the name of your sweetheart?”

“Ah, no,” John said.

Amelia said, softly, “Mrs. Lee is no longer of this world.”

All of the women sobered.

“But this song was written by a man for his sweetheart whose name was Annie.” John began to play.

_ You fill up my senses like a night in the forest _ _   
_ _ Like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain _ _   
_ _ Like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean _ _   
_ _ You fill up my senses, come fill me again _

The good thing about this song was that it was gentle and repetitive, and some of the women smiled and swayed along.

Donnan was listening raptly, and John suspected he was taking notes, likely going to try some of the lyrics out as pick-up lines on unwary castle maids - maybe even Katie, who John suspected fancied Rodney.

When the song ended, the women applauded.

“Annie’s a fortunate woman, that her man loves her so,” Amelia said.

One of the other women sighed. “Would that my husband loved me so.”

Amelia nudged her. “Now now, you know he loves you. He’s just - not so poetic.”

A younger woman set down her spindle and leaned in. “D’you have any more like that, Mr. Lee? With poetry?”

John had learned one embarrassingly romantic song so as to woo Nancy, back in the day. In addition to her love of murder ballads, she had a passion for flamenco guitar. Flamenco guitar was damn hard to learn, and the best John had managed while he was still in flight school was, well, Bryan Adams. He sighed. Mitch, Holland, and Dex had mocked him ruthlessly for the hours he’d spent picking away at the strings till his fingers bled and callused and bled again. But it had been worth it, at the time.

“This is called Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman?”

That made the women sit up straighter, lower their work and fix their gazes on him.

John didn’t know how much contact the Scottish had with Spain in the Eighteenth Century, let alone whether flamenco music was even a thing back then. When he hit the opening riffs, Donnan tilted his head curiously. 

John had never thought that learning this song would be worth anything ever again.

But he wanted to survive for the next three days so he could get back to his own time, and if dredging up old memories of wooing Nancy was what it took, he’d do it.

So he began to sing, swaying a little to the rhythm of the chords, and the women swayed with him.

It hadn’t occurred to him that the lyrics of the song might be considered salacious until he hit the second verse and one of the older women looked alarmed, scooped up a handkerchief and began to fan herself.

John had read the Canterbury Tales. And this was Europe. Weren’t people back then way more bawdy than in John’s time?

Too late to back out now.

_ To really love a woman _ _   
_ _ You let her hold you _ _   
_ _ ’Til you know how she needs to be touched _ _   
_ _ You gotta breathe her _ _   
_ _ Really taste her _ _   
_ _ ’Til you can feel her in your blood _ _   
_ _ And when you can see your unborn children in her eyes _ _   
_ __ You know you really love a woman

John lost himself in the guitar solo before the final chorus, the intricacy and speed of the notes.

When he finished the song, he was breathing hard.

The women stared at him.

He stared back at them.

And then Amelia began to applaud, and the others joined in, even the older one who might very well have crossed herself while John was playing.

He flexed his hands carefully, took a bow over his guitar.

Donnan was staring at him with a mix of admiration and alarm.

Amelia took a sip from the little goblet at her elbow, and John took the opportunity to bolt down another bannock and a half.

“Thank you for sharing your talents with us, Mr. Lee,” Amelia said. “Perhaps you will favor us with your music again soon.”

“You’re very welcome, milady,” John said. That was his cue, then. He was being dismissed. He nodded at Donnan, who scrambled to tidy up the tray while John put his guitar away.

Katie rose up as well. “Let me assist you.”

John yanked the zipper of the guitar case shut; he didn’t want her to look too closely at the case. “Thank you, but we’ve got it, don’t we, Donnan?”

Katie turned and looked at Donnan, who nodded and said, “Ye -  _ no,” _ and shook his head. He added, “A hand would be most welcome.”

Katie plucked the tray from his hands and followed John and Donnan to the door, accompanied them down the stairs.

“You hardly ate a thing, Mr. Lee.” Katie held out the tray.

John scooped up another bannock. The jam was sweet and fruity, but John wasn’t completely sure what fruit it was made of. “Thanks. I was busy singing is all. Everyone has been very kind and generous to me.” As long as the household thought John was happy and satisfied, everyone would keep the peace.

They reached the bottom of the stairs quickly. Katie thrust the tray back at Donnan and shoved him in the direction of the kitchen.

Donnan spluttered, made to protest, but Katie hissed something at him in Gaelic, and Donnan scurried away.

Katie tugged John into an alcove off to the side of the kitchen door. “Mr. Lee,” she said in a low voice, “I’ve a passing fair voice. Could you teach me a song to win a man’s heart?”

That wasn’t what John had been expecting, but she could have done something worse, like tried to seduce him or flirt with him. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m not exactly well-versed in wooing a man,” he began.

Katie’s eyes went wide. “No, I never meant to suggest that you’re a - a  _ Molly. _ I just mean - surely you know some songs -”

“Not right off the top of my head,” John said.

Katie looked up at his hair.

John sighed. “I mean, I’ll have to think about it. Most of the minstrels I’ve known have been men, singing to women. Can I get back to you?”

Katie nodded earnestly. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Lee.”

“You can call me John,” John said. Because chances of him answering to Mr. Lee the way he answered to his own name were slim, and he didn’t want to bring more suspicion down on himself.

“Thank you, John,” Katie said, and then she ducked out of the alcove.

John watched her go, bewildered. And then he realized. He was unsupervised. He had his guitar. He could go. He eased out of the alcove, checked left, checked right, turned left - and ran right into Evan.

_ “Sassenach, _ there you are.”

John’s heart sank. “Evan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selections from John's guitar repertoire:
> 
> You Are My Sunshine - Johnny Cash version  
> Annie's Song - John Denver  
> Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman - Bryan Adams


	6. Chapter 6

“Some of the fighting men have returned, injured in their skirmishes with the Redcoats. They need a healer’s hand.” Evan’s expression was professionally blank.

“Right away.” Medical attention. That John knew how to do, no hesitation, no exceptions. “Let me gather some supplies.”

Evan nodded and followed John through the kitchen and down into the surgery, where Donnan was pacing back and forth. 

_ “Sassenach!  _ Where have you been? I was going to -”

“What, send out a search party? And my name is John. Use it.”

Donnan colored. Then he smirked. “Did Katie use your name?”

John pushed past him. “We’re needed in the barracks. Carry for me.” He tore through the contents of the shelves and table for disinfectants, pain relievers, fever reducers, and his suture kit. He still had the needle and silk thread. He really would like a couple of pairs of forceps for better sutures, but that was a pipe dream.

Although Rodney was a master smith, wasn’t he?

A curved needle. That would be ideal.

He piled what he could into Donnan’s arms, some into Evan’s arms, and carried the rest, and then the three of them headed for the barracks.

John remembered where they were, vaguely, from his tour of the castle back in his own time, but when the courtyard and hallways were cluttered with people and noise and  _ stuff _ it was hard to tell where he was. Once they reached the outer courtyard and skimmed along the wall, John recognized where they were.

Three doors: dungeons, armory, barracks.

Evan headed into the middle one, so John followed.

The barracks weren’t too much different from what John had known. Bunk beds with wood frames instead of metal. Men crammed in on top of each other, some lounging, some sharpening their knives or swords, talking and laughing, drinking and gaming. And more than a few sprawled on their bunks, unmoving and pale with pain.

None of them looked all that impressed when Evan entered, which told John that Evan wasn’t ranked very highly among the fighting men. Of course, Evan wasn’t a Mitchell, not by blood or by name. Some of them called out to Donnan jovially, and he replied with a grin. 

When John stepped past Donnan, he heard the word  _ Sassenach _ bandied about more than once in the flood of Gaelic.

“Show me the injured, so I can prioritize,” John said.

Evan led him toward the bunks farthest in the back. Either all the men who bunked farthest from the door had had the misfortune of all being injured, or the injured were bunked farthest from the door as a matter of policy. John suspected the second. In the event the barracks were attacked, the weaker men would be defended for as long as possible.

One man had an infected gash from the business end of a Redcoat bayonet; he needed stitches and to get his fever under control. Another man had a broken arm, and the break needed to be reduced before John splinted it. And one man had been shot.

John scanned the room, spotted a stool, hooked his ankle around one leg and dragged it over. Evan surrendered his flask without being asked. John asked for a candle or a lamp or something so he could see better, and then he set to work. If he didn’t linger too long over the murmur of Gaelic in the background, he could pretend he was back in A-stan, helping out in the med tent after a rescue flight. Sometimes the rhythm of the illusion was broken when he reached for a tool he didn’t have, when Donnan or Evan didn’t understand what he meant by  _ sutures _ or  _ forceps _ or  _ disinfectant, _ but John could work and not think.

Or at least, he could work and not think about the fact that he’d traveled through time.

He fished the bullet out - a black lead ball - and cleaned the wound, stitched the man up, put a bandage over the sutures. He instructed some of the men nearby to watch him, report to John if the man developed a fever, and then it was on to the infected gash. John sent Donnan away to fetch some things for tea - willowbark tea would bring the fever down. Again he cleaned the wound, stitched it up, bandaged it. Donnan returned with a rudimentary tea service.

John ordered him to set the tea to steeping, and also get some honey to make it more palatable, and then he turned to the man with the broken arm.

As a general rule, John kept up a steady stream of soothing chatter, partially to keep his patients calm and assess their ability to focus, and also so they knew what was going on, what was happening so they weren’t afraid. Men and women who’d been rescued from combat or torture were still high on adrenaline from fear and panic, and they needed to know they were safe.

“Hey, soldier,” John said, leaning over the man, who was pale and sweating, “you have a fractured ulna. I need to reduce the fracture before I splint your arm.”

The man moaned, mumbled in Gaelic.

“He doesn’t ken your words,” Evan said in a low voice.

John glanced at him and Donnan. “You need to hold him down. This is going to hurt.”

Donnan and Evan moved into position.

John palpated the arm, found the site of the break. He said, “Soldier,” and the patient’s gaze snapped to him, “there’s a bone broken in your forearm. The two pieces are out of line. I need to put them back in line.”

The man nodded. And then he said, “It’s you.”

“Yes, the charmer,” John said.

The man cast a look at Evan. “The  _ sassenach -  _ he’s a Ganymede.”

John frowned. “Ganymede? One of Jupiter’s moons?”

Evan said, “No, he’s not. He’s the new charmer. Now hold still and grit your teeth, lad.”

“Actually, give him something to bite down on,” John said.

Donnan offered the man a piece of leather.

“On three.” John caught Donnan’s gaze. “Count us in?” He made sure his grip on the man’s forearm was set.

Donnan arched an eyebrow, but he said, “One.”

John snapped the bone back into place.

The man yowled and thrashed, spat out the leather. “You said on three!”

“Oops,” John drawled, unrepentant.

The man spat at him in Gaelic, a flurry of curse words with  _ sassenach _ and  _ Ganymede _ mixed in. John knew Jupiter’s moons were all named after figures in Greek mythology, but didn’t necessarily know all of their stories. Whoever or whatever Ganymede was, John suspected the name was an insult.

Evan spat back at the man in Gaelic.

Enough was enough. John pushed Evan aside, pressed his hand down on the man’s chest, and leaned, pinning him in place.

“Yes, I’m a  _ sassenach. _ Yes, we  _ sassenachs _ dress funny. No, I’m not a  _ tail _ or a  _ Molly _ or a  _ Ganymede _ or whatever the hell else you think I am. I’m offering my medical services on the order of your Laird. Take it or leave it.” He caught the man’s gaze, held it. “You ken?”

The man stared up at him, eyes wide. “Aye, I ken.”

“Good.” John straightened up. He wiped the blood off his hands as best as he could with a rag and some alcohol from Evan’s flask. He slewed Evan a look. “I can fight my own battles.”

Evan dipped his chin respectfully. “Aye, John.”

John collected his medical supplies, paused, and fished a few out of the piles he’d laden on Donnan and Evan. “Take those back to the surgery. Rodney’s in the smithy, yes? I need to check his wound again.”

“Rodney probably is in the smithy,” Donnan began, a hesitant note to his voice. 

“You’re avoiding him. I understand.” John smiled. “Go.”

But Donnan sighed, made a face, and foisted his bundle into Evan’s arms. An unspoken message passed between them, and Donnan led Rodney out of the barracks. 

“I can find my way back to the smithy on my own, thanks.” John squinted in the bright late morning sunlight and saw smoke rising from the craft stalls along the inner wall of the courtyard. 

“I’m sure you can,” Donnan said, and followed John across the outer courtyard. 

John rolled his eyes. He’d never understood why anyone dreamed of living in the past. The formality was unnecessary and irritating. “I get that Janet has assigned you to be my man while I’m here, but seriously, go help Evan. Evan will be less likely to drop or lose something important, and you can avoid Rodney and the forge. Two birds, one stone.”

Donnan’s expression turned shifty. “Ah, no,  _ Sassenach.  _ I mean, John. I’d best stay with you.”

John slowed, turned to face him. “You mean you’re supposed to follow me.”

Donnan said nothing, avoided John’s gaze. 

“On whose orders?”

Again, Donnan said nothing. 

John injected all the authority and cold fury into his voice that he’d used on chopper mechanics who’d almost gotten him and a rescue team killed. “The War Chief, or the Laird?”

“War Chief,” Donnan muttered. 

John hoped he never got captured by an enemy and interrogated. “Where is he?”

“Don’t know.”

It wasn’t hard to find Cameron Mitchell. John kept a polite expression on his face, asked some ladies if they’d seen the War Chief or where he was likely to be found this time of day. The ladies recognized him from his performance in the great hall the night before and were more than willing to offer up suggestions of possible locations. 

John had to get home somehow, had to get back to his own time, to Dave. In his own time he had no friends and no purpose, but at least people weren’t constantly accusing him of being a whore and a spy and trying to hurt him.

He found Cameron on the landing outside the room where Amelia and her other ladies had been engaged in their household pursuits.

“Why are your men following me?” 

Cameron was unmoved by John’s tone. “I know you’re not telling the truth of who and what you are, so I cannae trust that you aren’t a  _ sassenach  _ spy.” He stood on the step above John, tall and imposing. “Until I learn the truth or you otherwise prove yourself -”

“Your brother trusts me,” John said. He’d heard it from Dave a dozen times. Interrupt their flow, break their rhythm. Break their concentration - and their confidence.

Cameron paused. Uncertainty crossed his face. John plowed ahead. 

“That’s right. When Mr. Petrie arrives on Saturday, I’m going with him to Inverness - and back to my family. The Mitchell arranged it.” John met Cameron’s gaze. John hadn’t been out of the Sheppard family game for so long that he didn’t remember how to play it - how to play people. “So maybe you don’t trust him. Or he doesn’t trust you.”

Cameron looked away for a moment. His jaw twitched. “Whatever arrangements you’ve made with my brother are none of my care. You will be watched every second of the day until you depart, and that’s final.” He spun on his heel and swept up the stairs. 

Donnan, who’d hovered in the corner behind John, shrugged apologetically. 

“Orders are orders,” he said. 

John understood that all too well. “Fine. Enjoy the next three days.” He turned and headed down the stairs, back to the kitchens.

Was this what racism or sexism felt like? Constant suspicion and belittlement because of who and what he was, because of things about him that he couldn’t change? When John made it back to his own time, sure, he’d join the family business, don a white lab coat and hang out in the lab with the other nerds, running calculations and statistical analyses and solving equations, developing new formulas. It was the antithesis of being a Sheppard, of being a soldier. John had never wanted to be the former. He was no longer allowed to be the latter. So he’d settle for something else entirely. Something that was neither Sheppard nor soldier, neither  _ sassenach _ nor  _ Molly. _

Janet was supervising the preparations for lunch for the Laird and his family. 

“Janet,” John said, “the Laird asked me to attend to some of his fighting men in the barracks. I can’t imagine that they’re the only people around the castle who need medical assistance. I doubt I can go as far as the village today, but I want to be as much help as I can before I go. To repay the Laird’s hospitality.”

Janet smiled. “That’s very generous of you, John. There is a charmer down in Cranesmuir, but he cannae be here often.”

“Well, give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the tempest-tossed.”

“I know precisely who you mean.”

Evan emerged from the surgery, empty-handed, and paused when he saw Donnan hovering behind John’s shoulder.

John turned to him with the most strychnine-sweet smile he could muster, one that had driven his superior officers insane. “Evan, so sorry, change of plans. Let’s go put together a portable surgery. We have more patients to see.”

Donnan trailed John down into the surgery. Evan cast Donnan a bewildered look, and an unspoken flurry passed between them. John began issuing instructions, slow and calm and polite. Fetch a basket. Line it with something, so nothing fell out through the weaving. And so things didn’t get wet unnecessarily. John narrated as he went. 

Willowbark, to reduce fevers and pain. Alcohol, to clean wounds and instruments. Silk thread was the best. Was there any chance he could get a curved needle? Could Rodney make surgical tools? Tormentil, to stop bleeding and relieve people of the runs. Heather, for coughs and chillblains. Bog myrtle, also for fevers, but useful against ulcers and worms.

“It makes nice-smelling candles, too,” Donnan offered hesitantly.

He was young, John realized. Just a teenager. Definitely not yet full-grown. Tall, but still narrow in the shoulders. Likely didn’t even shave every day. He was trying to apologize.

“I’ll remember that, when I next need a candle,” John said.

Donnan’s attention wandered quickly after that, but Evan listened closely, arranged bottles carefully in the basket (which he’d lined with a scrap of wool).

Once John was satisfied he had supplies to treat pretty much anything they encountered, they returned to the kitchen, where Janet had a list of people who needed seeing to.

The people who needed seeing to were all over the castle. John’s first instinct as a soldier was to figure out where they were staying and schedule the most efficient path possible. But he wasn’t in this to be efficient. He was in this to irritate the living daylights out of Cameron Mitchell - who irritated him - and also to draw suspicion from himself. So he drew up instead a list of those who needed the most ‘urgent’ care and arranged to see them in that order.

By  _ urgent _ mostly he meant disgusting. A little girl who was vomiting. A pregnant woman with diarrhea. An old man with hemorrhoids. Various people with boils that needed lancing or oozing, infected wounds that needed cleaning and bandaging. However privileged John had grown up, however he’d taken modern hygiene for granted, he wasn’t squeamish about blood and the human body. 

The first time an old man turned around, bent over, and flipped up his kilt to show off his hemorrhoids, Donnan nearly threw up. Good.

John did his best to be kind, patient. A surprising number of people didn’t speak any English at all, so when Donnan couldn’t handle the gritty reality of medicine, Evan was left to be John’s assistant and interpreter all in one. John still talked to the patients like they were people, addressing them instead of Evan even if they addressed Evan instead of him. He kept his tone gentle and slow, calm. He repeated the tale to each of them, that he was there to help, that the Laird was entrusting their medical care to him while he was present. That would drive it home for Cameron. Fergus trusted John, and ultimately Fergus was in charge.

Even Evan’s unflappable calm started to falter when John, who was almost done for the day, was summoned to check on several young men who’d been visiting the local prostitutes and were paying for it. It wasn’t John’s first go-round with STDs. He wasn’t completely sure what kinds of contraceptives were available in the day. There were things women could do to abort their babies, but John was pretty sure there were no condoms.

So he told the shame-faced boys to stay away from the sickly women and to just -  _ handle _ things themselves till they were married.

Usually his advice for shame-faced Marines, airmen, and young soldiers was the less kind  _ wrap it up or weep, dumbass, _ but that wasn’t exactly something he could say here.

Evan, who’d retreated to the doorway after the first boy lifted his kilt, remained in the doorway listening, and when John was finally finished - and had rinsed his hands thoroughly in alcohol - he reentered the little house to help John pack up his supplies.

“So, time for supper?” John asked.

Evan and Donnan both turned surprising shades of green.

“Ah, no,” Donnan said. He peered into the basket. “D’you have anything to settle a stomach?”

“Sure. You can eat some peppermint, or suck on some ginger root, or drink some chamomile tea.” John clapped him on the shoulder. “You’d best toughen up, kiddo, because you can bet we’ll be doing more of this tomorrow. Might even go down to Cranesmuir first thing and help out.”

“I’ll take some tea,” Evan said.

John nodded. “Tea it is. Need to report in to Janet, though.” He grabbed jars of chamomile and honey out of the basket and sent Evan and Donnan down to the surgery to put everything away, and he went to speak to Janet, who was overseeing the preparation of supper.

He filled her in, that he’d treated all of the patients, and asked for some paper, pen, and ink so he could leave after-care instructions if anyone needed follow-up care after he was gone. Katie was there, working in the background, pounding some herbs and spices into a side of lamb, and very obviously listening in to their conversation.

“Writing instruments, of course.” Janet patted John on the arm. “You’re a very efficient charmer. Your skills are much appreciated, and you’ll be sorely missed.” She rustled up a teapot so John could set some chamomile tea to steeping.

“Just doing what I can to repay a fraction of The Mitchell’s generosity.” 

Janet nudged John and said in a low voice, “I hear your singing for the Lady went well.”

“I hope so. The songs we sing are so different.” John searched her expression for any hint of disapproval, but she just looked amused.

“Pardon my being so indelicate, but how is it that a man as talented and bonny as yourself has not found a new wife?”

So the senior castle staff, if not the entire castle, knew John had been married. Katie was very determinedly looking ahead and pounding the herbs into the lamb very vehemently and so obviously  _ not listening. _

“It’s - complicated,” John managed finally. And it was. He had no idea what the local attitude was toward divorce, and there was no good way to explain what he’d done with the Air Force (even what an air force was) and how Nancy had been unable to cope with his inability to tell her anything about it (some of that professional, some of that because he was who he was).

“You still love her?” Janet eyed him shrewdly.

“Like I told the Laird, it was another lifetime.” John poured two mugs of tea, stirred in some honey. “I’d better check on Evan and Donnan, make sure that the practice of medicine hasn’t completely put them out.”

“Don’t be late for supper,” Janet said. “Himself is not well pleased by tardiness.”

Just like John’s father, or any number of John’s commanding officers over the years. “I understand.” He went to head for the surgery.

Katie cleared her throat. “D’you need a hand, John?”

She was trying to tell him something with just her eyes, but John didn’t know her well enough to begin to guess what it was. He remembered their encounter from that morning.

“No, but thanks. I’ll let you know when I do.”

Down in the surgery, Evan had unpacked the basket and was rearranging things neatly on the shelves and table in alphabetical order. He’d dusted, from the looks of things, and arranged it so the massive herbology book had pride of place on the table on a little stand.

Donnan was sprawled on one of the patient cots and half-heartedly folding some blankets.

They were chattering back and forth in Gaelic, casual conversation, though John heard his name -  _ Ian _ \- and  _ Mitchell _ and also  _ Roddy. _

“I brought tea to settle your stomach,” John said.

Donnan hopped up off the cot, letting the half-folded blanket fall to the mattress, and scrambled over to John. He accepted a mug, raised it with a muttered  _ Slanja va, _ and drained about half of it in one go.

Evan finished arranging a row of bottles and accepted the second mug.

“Hopefully that will settle your stomach in time for supper. In the meantime, I have some reading up to do.” John scooped up the big medicine book and carried it over to his cot, flopped back on it, and opened to the first page.

Evan finished his tea, thanked John for it, and promised to return the mug to the kitchens. He headed up the stairs with a brief farewell to Donnan. So Evan wasn’t part of John’s security detail. That made some sense, John supposed, given that Evan was part of a separate clan.

Donnan eyed John for a moment, clearly not looking forward to having to stare at John while he read. Finally he flopped down on the cot and finished folding the blanket. John wasn’t halfway through the first chapter of the herbology book when he heard Donnan snoring.

This was it. John’s chance. Donnan’s guard was down. Janet’s guard was down. Cameron’s would be too, no doubt. And most of the castle denizens had seen him tending to the poor and needy. They probably had warm, fuzzy feelings for him. He could escape. He could -

Go out gathering herbs for medicine. No one would think twice about that.

John closed the book quietly, set it aside. He scooped up the basket Evan had been carrying earlier. He knew he had no choice - he had to leave his guitar behind. It had no use while he was herb-gathering, and once he got back to his own time, finding a new one would be easy. He could even get a nice one.

John grabbed his satchel, which was stuffed to bursting with his modern clothes - which desperately needed cleaning, but he wasn’t about to let anyone take them away - and headed up the stairs as quietly as possible.

The kitchen was crowded, chaotic, dim with smoke and steam. Good.

No one would look twice at him.


	7. Chapter 7

John managed to sneak out of the kitchen and across the courtyard without anyone noticing. He’d be more noticeable as the crowds thinned, so he kept to the crowds as much as possible till he reached the outer walls. Then he scanned his surroundings, spotted the herb garden on the edge of the forest, and made for it. On the other side of the forest was Cranesmuir, and past Cranesmuir was the path to Inverness and the  _ Rionnag Geata. _ Possibly the way home. Or at least the best way to be found if Dave figured out what had happened to him and sent search and rescue.

John balanced the basket on his hip and made for the herb patch. He’d have to pick a few things to make his story more believable, should anyone from the castle accost him. Chances of anyone in the village actually knowing what he looked like, though, were slim. Damn. Should he have put on the traditional boots after all? That way if anyone locals spotted him, they wouldn’t make him for a  _ sassenach. _ Maybe he could barter away something for a hat to cover his hair. Should he try to cop a Highland accent? He’d heard nothing but for the past few days.

If John was headed on the run, some emergency supplies wouldn’t be amiss anyway. Disinfectants. Fever reducers. Topical coagulants. Pain relievers. Maybe even a few things to speed up the healing of bruises. If John got into a skirmish, visible bruises would make him look suspicious or, worse, more easily identifiable to pursuers. 

John paused at the edge of the patch, scanning. 

No. He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. People would notice if he looked rushed, frantic. If he moved calmly, with purpose, like he was absolutely supposed to be there, no one would look at him twice.

He plunged into the herb patch.

Ladies’ Mantle for cuts and wounds. Evening Primrose for pain relief. Feverfew for fevers. He had to go slow, be careful, make sure to harvest each plant properly so as to preserve the parts he needed - roots or leaves or blossoms or stalks. He’d seen plenty of other people out in the herb patch before, usually kitchen maids or kitchen boys. There was no one here now, just him. 

If he was smart, he’d grab some useful edible plants too. He started toward some mushrooms, and - no, those were poisonous. John snatched his hand back and scanned for some bitter vetch. If he remembered rightly, it was used during famine when food was scarce, could stave off hunger and thirst for a long time, days or even weeks, though John wasn’t going to go without food and water for weeks if he could help it. Heath peas, was another name for them. If he picked some, let them dry, he could eat them in a pinch. He still had some power bars. 

The flowers were red when they were young, turned bluer as the plant aged.

John prowled along the rows of herbs carefully, alert for the color.

“Planning on a long journey? The bitter vetch is over here.”

John straightened up, reaching for his knife instinctively.

There was another man in the herb patch with a basket over one arm. John recognized him immediately, from the performance in the great hall. He’d been very surprised to see John, but he’d caught onto the song and could sing along very quickly.

“Didnae mean to startle you,” the man said. He was wearing, best as John could tell, Mitchell tartan with his waistcoat and jacket. His hair was longer, tied back in a cue, and he had a neat round beard.

“Of course,” John said, automatically polite, wary. 

“Or were you looking for something else? Those mushrooms you nearly touched are poisonous,” the man continued.

“Poisonous if ingested, yes, but useful for bleeding wounds if applied topically,” John responded.

The man laughed. “And here I thought you were trying to poison your mother-in-law. If it works, let me know.”

“Actually, my mother-in-law wasn’t so bad.” John studied the man. He was tall, broad across the shoulders, strong-looking, with a bit of a long face and full cheeks. 

“I’m Gilleon Duncan,” the man said.

“Nice to meet you, Gilleon. I’m -”

“John Lee. I know. I’ve heard rumors about you, in the village.”

Of course Gilleon would be able to recognize John, having seen him perform in the great hall. Would other villagers recognize him? John tucked his basket against his hip, doing his best to seem casual. “Oh yeah? And what do the rumors say?”

“That you’re a  _ sassenach _ spy.” Gilleon met John’s gaze, didn’t look away.

_ “Sassenach,  _ yes. Spy, no.”

Gilleon shrugged. “I don’t much hold with rumors myself. They say I’m a witch.”

“A witch?” John echoed. He’d forgotten that the things his mother had taught him as mythology and folklore were as real as science and religion in this era. “Wouldn’t you be a warlock? Being a man and all.”

Gilleon shrugged again. “Some say my work is black magic. But really I’m just like you - I understand how plants can heal a body.”

John huffed. “So people think I’m a spy  _ and _ a witch?”

“No, but because of you people think  _ I _ should be helping pregnant women with their runs.” Gilleon rolled his eyes. “You’re too soft-hearted, and you make me seem cruel by comparison.”

“Lucky for you, I’ll be gone in a few days.”

“A few days?” Gilleon echoed. “Will you be performing again?”

“If The Mitchell asks it.”

“Will you be at the Hearings tomorrow night?”

“Hearings?” John wracked his brain. “What kinds of hearings?”

“When the Laird hears and settles disputes among the clan and tenants.”

“Maybe.”

Gilleon hoisted his very full basket higher. “I hope to see you there. If not, you should visit me in the village sometime. I reckon some of my potions and tinctures will tickle your fancy.”

“Thanks,” John said, as brightly as possible, and hoped that it didn’t sound obvious that he would likely never meet Gilleon again. “That’s very kind of you.”

Gilleon smiled, but then his smile took on a sardonic edge, and he said, “I think that’s a sign - it’s time for me to go.”

_ “Sassenach!” _

John spun around.

Donnan came stumbling through the trees. “There you are!” He skidded to a halt. “What are you doing?” Then he noticed Gilleon and edged closer, lowered his voice. “What are you doing with  _ him?” _

“Picking some more healing herbs for tomorrow’s rounds.” John held out the basket. “See?  _ Tanacetum parthenium, _ or feverfew, is useful for the prevention of migraine headaches -”

“You know you’re not -” Donnan bit his lip, cut himself off, slewed another wary glance at Gilleon. “You left me behind.”

“You were asleep. Didn’t seem right, to disturb you after how hard you worked today,” John said. “Don’t worry. Gilleon was keeping me company.”

“And now I’m off, young Master Maxwell. ’Twas a pleasure to meet you, John Lee.” Gilleon nodded politely and then departed, headed in the direction of the village. 

As soon as he was out of sight, Donnan grabbed John’s wrist and yanked. “Let’s go. We’ll be late for supper if we don’t hurry.”

They made it into the great hall and into their places at what John surmised was their usual table, close to the door, on the left side, with a decent view of the head table. John set his basket and satchel against the wall where it would be out of the way. Moments later, The Mitchell swept in, Lady Amelia on his arm, Cameron just behind his left shoulder.

They took their places at the head table. The Mitchell pulled out Amelia’s chair, the picture of chivalry. The Mitchell lowered himself into his seat with only the barest hint of pain. Cameron was seated half a second after him. 

John leaned over to Evan. “What’s wrong with the Mitchell’s legs?” He kept his voice low.

Evan shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Rodney muttered, “We don’t talk about it.”

“I was just curious. Professionally,” John said. “Has anyone ever treated him for it?”

Rodney frowned. His mouth was wide, curiously slanted. “Widow McLachlan did her best.” 

“He’s in constant pain, isn’t he?” John glanced at the head table where a maid was already refilling the Mitchell’s wine goblet.

“The Mitchell was thrown from the horse as a lad, trampled. His legs were badly damaged. Never quite healed right,” Rodney said quietly. He darted a nervous look at the high table.

“Because his bones just kept breaking again?” Brittle bone disorders were not uncommon.

Rodney shook his head. “No. They just - healed wrong, and attempts to fix them were in vain.”

Not brittle bones, then. Some kind of bone density disorder. A form of osteochondrodysplasia. John was no expert, but most of those diseases were rare, genetic. Modern medicine could have helped immensely, had the disease been caught and treated in childhood.

John could tell that this line of conversation was making Rodney nervous, so he changed subject. “How is your shoulder doing?”

“Fine,” Rodney said shortly.

“Do I need to come by the smithy and check it?”

“No.”

John studied him, wary for any sign of deception. “You’re not swinging a hammer?”

“Hamish, the castle smith, isn’t letting me forge a thing. I hope that makes you happy.”

“I’m not happy just because you’re bored,” John said. “But you do need to look after your shoulder.”

“Aye, Rodney, you do need to look after yourself,” Katie said. She appeared beside the table, balancing a tray of food.

Rodney glanced up at her. “Oh, hello, Katie. And I look after myself just fine. Who needs a wife with you two around?” He cast John a disgruntled look.

Katie said, “You could do with a wife, you know.” Her tone was both reproachful and light and flirtatious all at once.

“What wife would want me?” Rodney shook his head. 

“Why wouldn’t a wife want you?” John asked.

“Aye,” Donnan agreed. “You’ve such a lovely personality.” But the sarcasm in his voice was obvious.

“I’m not blind to my faults. There’s a reason my father only sent me here once, when I was but sixteen. I was not made for castle life. But I’m the best at what I do, and what I do is useful, and that’s all that matters.” Rodney bit savagely into a bannock and fixed his gaze on the opposite wall.

Katie served them all food, and then she hovered by Rodney’s elbow, refilled his wine goblet. She smiled at him hopefully, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can I fetch you anything else?”

“No, this is fine.” Rodney didn’t even look at her.

“You let me know as soon as you need something,” Katie said.

Rodney nodded distractedly, and Katie’s expression fell. When she saw John looking at her, she rallied with a smile again, but then she hurried away. Rodney bolted down the rest of his food on the plate and mumbled something about supervising an apprentice farrier before he ducked out of the great hall.

“Now you’ve done it,” Evan said, to Donnan.

Donnan blinked guilelessly. “Done what?”

“You hurt his feelings.” Evan gestured in the direction Rodney had gone.

“Rodney’s always grabbit. His feelings are fine.” Donnan continued eating and drinking at a leisurely pace.

John glanced at Evan, who looked longsuffering. He glanced up at the head table. Katie was weaving her way through the tables, serving food, deftly avoiding the fighting men and their wandering hands. When one man got particularly bold, Lady Amelia made a conspicuous coughing noise, and the man snatched his hand away from Katie’s behind.

She glared at him and lowered her tray, bringing it dangerously close to his skull, and headed back toward the kitchen. When she passed by John’s table, she cast a hopeful glance at them, looked crestfallen when she saw Rodney’s empty chair.

Oh no. John had been the unfortunate mediator in more than one ill-fated romance on the desert sands before. Sometimes it was young, lonely soldiers who had ill-fated hookups and were terrible about being professional afterward. One time, though, John had been the reluctant confidante for a young chopper mechanic, an enlisted man who had an extremely ill-fated crush on a parajumper from another rescue squadron, a bright, beautiful, bubbly woman who was absolutely forbidden. Did a similar barrier exist between Katie and Rodney, because Katie was a maidservant and Rodney was a cousin to The Mitchell and the War Chief?

“So, Rodney’s only ever stayed here once before?” John asked Evan. “When he was sixteen?” 

Evan nodded. “He visited just the once, yes. Stayed for a few months.”

“Were you with him?” 

Evan nodded again but said nothing.

Donnan slewed a glance at him. “You were?”

“Our stay was unremarkable.” Evan shrugged.

“Are the McKays close with the Mitchells?” John remembered that Evan was a Lorne, and the Lornes were a sept of Clan McKay.

“Their lands aren’t physically all that close, no. The McKays are much farther north. But there are ties between the clans. Mostly through marriage.” Evan ate neatly and delicately, for all that he used his fingers and his  _ sgian dubh. _

Donnan looked at Evan sidelong. “Lord Lorne is a Campbell, is he not?”

Evan met his gaze for only a second before looking away. “That is one of the subsidiary titles for the Duke of Argyll, yes, but not every Lorne is a Campbell, no.”

Donnan nudged John, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You and Evan could be kin.”

“Could be,” John said. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Donnan said airily, with a pointedness to his tone that made John suspect he meant just the opposite.

John heard people complaining about politics all the time, how modern politicians were scum. The leaders of old were heroes - Lincoln, Washington, William Wallace. If only we could go back to simpler times, they said. All this trading on names and relations was hardly simple. There was so much history in a single name, and John didn’t have a clue what any of it was, let alone how to navigate the tangled webs of loyalties and septs and kith and kin. John glanced at the head table and saw a maid refilling The Mitchell’s goblet while Lady Amelia looked on, looked sad.

Cameron looked straight at John, and his appetite vanished. 

He had to get back to his own time. There he could be no one, live off the grid, answer to no one but himself. This entire experience was madness.

John finished the last of his food and rose up. “If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded to Cameron, deposited his empty plate on a maid’s tray, and headed for the surgery.

Donnan was on his heels two seconds later. John rolled his eyes and very determinedly did not look at the young man, though he paid attention to Donnan’s movements, knew he’d sat himself on a stool in the corner and looked both tired and bored.

John put his satchel on his bed, then set about preparing the herbs and plants he’d gathered earlier. Some needed to be cleaned, bundled, and hung for drying. Others needed to be separated - leaves, roots, stems, flowers, seeds. Yet others needed to be soaked in alcohol and the tincture preserved, or crushed and the juice or pulp or paste saved. John ignored any noises from the kitchen above, just worked.

Until someone said his name. 

“John?”

Katie stood at the bottom of the stairs, clinging to the wall and gazing at him apprehensively.

He turned to her. “Katie. How can I help you?”

“I was wondering,” she began, then noticed Donnan.

“He’s chaperoning me,” John said, “until I go.”

Donnan looked aggrieved.

“For my own protection, of course, being a  _ sassenach _ in the Highlands and all. But Donnan’s been helping me with my medical work, and he understands doctor-patient confidentiality.” John was trying to be as pleasant as possible, because Katie looked terrified.

“I dinnae ken what you mean,” she said in a small voice.

“What I mean is that anything you tell me will stay private.” John stressed the last word pointedly and cast Donnan a warning look. 

Donnan rolled his eyes but nodded.

John eyed him, then considered. “Can you read?”

“Yes,” Donnan said indignantly. “I’m a horse-breaker, not an ejit.”

“Good. I’ve labeled each of these supplies. There are instructions in the book on how to prepare each plant. Start with the tinctures. I’ll see to Katie.” John rinsed his hands in the washbasin, then dumped the dirty water into the chamber pot. He rolled down his sleeves - good thing he was still wearing his waistcoat, even if he’d shed his jacket - and beckoned to Katie.

“You wanted help with a song,” he said to her.

She nodded and crossed the surgery toward him, giving Donnan a wide berth.

Donnan had shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, was heaving open Widow McLachlan’s medical tome.

John unzipped his guitar case, drew out his guitar. He dragged a stool over to one of the patient cots on the far side of the room from Donnan, sat down on the cot. Katie perched tentatively on the stool.

“So, you want to learn a love song to win a man’s heart.”

Katie nodded.

“I’m guessing that man is young Mr. Mitchell.”

Katie looked confused.

And just like that, John figured it out. Rodney’s real last name wasn’t Mitchell. Why was he hiding his true identity? Obviously not from anyone at the castle. Should John ask Rodney about it? Or could he get the answer out of Katie?

No, the answer didn’t matter, because in a few days John would be gone, be back home.

“Rodney,” he clarified.

“Aye, Rodney,” she said warily.

“So, I’ve only known Rodney a couple of days, but I’m guessing he’s not much interested in poetry.” John tuned his guitar.

“I do not know if he reads poetry. He can read,” Katie offered.

“I’m sure he can read, but Rodney is very - direct. Blunt. Poetry is about beating around the bush, and Rodney seems like the kind of man who -”

“Sets the bush on fire,” Donnan offered.

“Yes,” John said. “So - if you want a song to woo Rodney, a song laden with metaphors like  _ you fill up my senses _ probably isn’t going to go over well. You need a song with more direct lyrics.”

Apart from the handful of love songs John had learned to woo Nancy and a few power ballads he’d learned to entertain young and bored Marines and Airmen, John was no connoisseur of love songs. Most of the songs he knew were Johnny Cash songs, and his favorite Johnny Cash songs weren’t happy, wooing love songs. Ring of Fire was always a hit, but it was definitely too metaphorical for Rodney.

John strummed a few chords, thinking. 

A stray line from a song drifted through his mind,  _ I’ve done everything I know to do to catch your eye and get a rise from you, _ and that reminded him of Katie and Rodney perfectly.

“How about this?” He started to sing Johnny Cash’s I Love You Love You but didn’t make it halfway through the intro chorus when Donnan interrupted.

“No. Absolutely not. That drivel? Rodney’d poke your eyes out with hot iron. No.”

Katie looked frightened.

“Hey,” John started to protest, but then he realized Donnan was right. “Okay,  _ touché, _ not the right song to woo Rodney.” He switched chords. “Try this one on for size.”

Cash’s ’Cause I Love You was definitely a better fit. It was direct without being full of drivel, and it sounded like an honest declaration that was even period-appropriate.

_ I’ll sweep out your chimney _ _   
_ _ Yes, and I will bring you flowers _ _   
_ _ Yes, and I will do for you _ _   
_ _ Most anything you want me to _

There was a line about cottages and castles and royal treatment, and honey from the bee tree in the meadow, and also about rainbows and a pot of gold and, okay, Irish, but it was close enough.

Katie’s face lit up halfway through the second verse, and she started to sway along. The song was originally a duet, Johnny Cash and June Carter, alternating lines in one half, then reversing which lines they alternated when they repeated some verses in the second half, but it didn’t sound wrong, coming from one voice.

“It’s perfect,” Katie declared.

“What do you think, Donnan? Will it pass muster with Rodney?”

Donnan made a face. “It’s better than the last one, at any rate.”

“Can you read?” John asked Katie.

She nodded. “Aye. Lady Amelia makes sure all her maids can read.”

“Great. Donnan, get over here, write down these song lyrics. That way Katie can read them while she learns the melody.”

“You said you wanted me to do these tinctures -”

“Are you my man or not?”

Donnan gave a put-upon sigh, found a paper and pen, and dragged a stool over to sit beside them. “Let’s hear it.”

For all that Donnan was sarcastic, irreverent, and appeared to have the attention span of a spastic poodle, he was actually quite literate, and as long as John dictated slowly and clearly and explained line breaks appropriately, John didn’t have to repeat himself. 

John checked the lyrics over, made chord notations at the verses and choruses so another musician besides him could play for Katie, and then it was time. 

“Sing with me,” John said. He let her listen to the intro chords, counted her in, and sang. 

Katie’s grip on the paper was white-knuckled, her voice halting, but she wasn’t wrong. Her voice was more than passing fair once she picked up a measure of confidence in the melody, if not the lyrics. 

Donnan had a lovely voice, surprisingly deep and melodic compared to his speaking voice. He caught on to the lyrics quickly, could predict the cadence of them in the melody in a way Katie couldn’t. 

John made them sing through the song with him a couple of times, and then he stopped singing for a couple of passes, and then he had Donnan stop singing for a couple of passes. Katie’s final run on the song was perfect.

John actually applauded - and wondered if he’d done something to utterly ruin the space-time continuum by teaching an eighteenth-century girl a twentieth-century song. Not the entire space-time continuum, but some part of it. Granted, Johnny Cash sang covers of plenty of folk songs and traditional songs. Maybe this was just a blip in the space-time continuum.

“Now,” John asked, “can you do it without the lyrics?”

Katie’s grip on the paper turned white-knuckled again.

“That’s okay,” John said quickly. “You can keep that piece of paper.”

“Thank you, Mister John,” Katie said, wide-eyed and grateful. 

John glanced at his watch, and damn, but it was after eleven, and he’d woken up early. 

Donnan yawned so hard he almost fell off of his stool. 

“You’re welcome. Now go, get some sleep. Tomorrow comes too soon.”

Katie folded the paper, tucked it into the folds of her dress, bobbed a curtsy, and ducked out of the room. 

John put his guitar away, then poked in his satchel for his toothbrush and toothpaste. “You can go now,” he said to Donnan.

“Not going.” Donnan had kicked off his boots and was shrugging out of his waistcoat.

“Seriously?”

“War Chief’s orders.” Donnan flopped down on the cot Rodney had been on, the one closest to the stairs, and started to snore.

John had no doubt that Donnan would come to full wakefulness just as quickly as he’d fallen asleep. He sighed, stripped down to his shirt, and crawled into his cot, one hand curled around his satchel.

He didn’t fall asleep.

He didn’t fall asleep.

He tossed and turned, got tangled in the itchy wool blanket and strap of his satchel, and he wondered. How Dave was doing. What Dave was doing. What did Dave think had happened to John? Was he worried? Did he think John had gone crazy and just run off? Or that he’d been kidnapped?

Had he found John’s capo?

And what the hell would John say, to explain where he’d been for the past few days?

John closed his eyes and started counting up the Fibonacci sequence. He fell asleep right before he reached the twenty-first number in the sequence.

* * *

John had barely closed his eyes when someone hollered his name.

Katie. Again.

“John, please, the baby, she’s dying!”

That wasn’t something John had ever expected to wake up to. He floundered upright. Katie came to a screeching halt beside his bed.

Donnan was already on his feet, tucking his shirt more neatly into his kilt.

Katie grabbed John’s arm. “She’s been coughing all night, her fever won’t stop, and now - she’s not moving, barely breathing.”

Dying baby. Illness John couldn’t begin to diagnose or treat from where he was. He was exhausted. Disoriented. Dying baby. Crying woman. Where the hell was his underwear?

Right. Another time. Another place.

“Go,” John said. “Send for Gilleon, have him get started on the baby. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He surged to his feet.

Katie let out a squeak, and John remembered he was naked beneath the voluminous, billowing shirt.

_ “Go,”  _ John repeated. “Donnan, help me.”

Katie ran back up the stairs. John submitted to Donnan’s assistance, holding still, turning this way and that when directed, raising his arms, lowering his arms. He didn’t bother shaving or brushing his teeth. He shoved a basket into Donnan’s arms, filled it with every cough remedy and fever remedy he knew, yanked on his jacket, and together they headed up the stairs.

A kitchen boy was just barely stoking the main cooking fire when they dashed past him.

John had made it almost to the edge of the courtyard before he realized - he had no idea where Katie’s house was.

“Do you know?” he asked Donnan.

Donnan didn’t know. 

“Maybe Rodney does,” John suggested.

“He barely notices Katie. Why would he know where she lives?”

“What about Evan?”

“Evan’s no Mitchell, he doesn’t know Cranesmuir like -”

“Janet,” John said. “Janet will know where Katie lives. Where’s Janet?”

“That’s something Evan would know,” Donnan said, and he veered back toward the house - not the barracks where the fighting men slept, but to the place where John knew the guest quarters were - and where extended family was housed.

If Rodney wasn’t really a Mitchell, was he an honored guest of some sort?

John stayed on Donnan’s heels. “Clock’s ticking.”

“What clock?” Donnan glanced over his shoulder.

“I mean we don’t have a lot of time.”

“I know.” Donnan started for the stairs up toward the guest quarters - and nearly ran into Janet.

She swatted at him. “Watch where you’re going, you great clot-heid -”

John caught her shoulder. “Janet, where does Katie live?”

“Katie -?”

“Catriona Brown. She summoned me, says there’s a sick baby.”

Janet’s eyes went wide. She hollered down the stairs, and a kitchen boy appeared. Janet issued him swift instructions in Gaelic. The boy nodded, beckoned to John and Donnan, and they were back tearing across the courtyard. 

The path to Cranesmuir was on the other side of the herb patch where John had met Gilleon. The path went a little faded in the trees, but on the other side of the trees John could see the village - tall stone buildings, the spire for a church, houses. They’d barely made it to the village square - where a man was slumped in the stocks, snoring, head at an awkward angle - when John knew which house they were supposed to be at, because everyone was gathered around it, and there were lots of women crying softly.

John’s throat closed. No. Were they there too late?

Donnan took a deep breath, then shouted, “Make way, make way for the healer!”

There was a certain folkloric context to a  _ charmer _ that wasn’t present for a healer, and the crowd outside a certain door parted. John, carrying the basket of medicine, headed straight for the door. Whispers flooded his wake, and he thought he saw one woman avoid his gaze and cross herself, and he heard it,  _ Sassenach, _ run through the crowd.

Inside the house was dim and cramped but kept neat and clean. There was a table on one side of the room, a large cooking pot hanging in the fireplace, and a large bed on the other half of the room, a scattering of chairs. One woman was seated on the bed, rocking a bundle in her arms while other children clustered around her, watching with wide eyes and wet faces.

John didn’t recognize anyone. He opened his mouth to ask for Katie, but then the woman saw him, and she drew back, speaking in rapid-fire Gaelic that set the children to crying again.

John raised one hand in a gesture of surrender. “Donnan, can you translate for me?”

He nodded.

John offered the woman his politest smile. “Ma’am, my name is John Lee, and The Mitchell has me acting as the healer at Castle Leoch while I visit. Katie asked me to come see to the sick child. I promise I won’t hurt your baby and I will do my best to help your baby get better. Can I see your baby?”

Donnan was better than a lot of translators John had worked with in Afghanistan, spoke quickly. As was typical when working with the translator, the woman addressed herself to Donnan rather than John, but Donnan relayed her message efficiently.

“She doesn’t want your cold  _ sassenach  _ hands on the baby lest you make it worse.”

John took a deep breath. He’d worked around cultural taboos before, and in much more tense situations. “Okay. I respect that. Will she answer some questions about the baby?”

Whatever Donnan said made the woman relax a fraction, and she nodded.

“Aye, she’ll answer questions,” Donnan said.

“Okay. Thank you. How long has the baby been sick?”

_ Only for the last couple of days. _

“Besides coughing, have you noticed any other symptoms?”

_ Fever, and crying. _

That could be any number of diseases that could kill a baby. John wracked his brain. “What does the cough sound like?”

As if on cue, the baby coughed. John nudged Donnan. “Did that sound like a dog bark to you? Or a - a seal bark?”

“Seal?” Donnan echoed.

“Like a - like a selkie seal?”

Donnan cocked his head, listened when the baby coughed again. “Aye, a bit. Does that mean something?”

John looked at the woman. “Can I come closer? Not to touch the baby, just to listen to the baby breathe.”

After conferring with Donnan, the woman nodded. Pertussis or croup - those were John’s best guess for a crying, coughing child. Then again, the child could have the common cold. John remembered, being in basic, grumbling about having his arms turned into pincushions for all the vaccinations he had to take. Then he’d gone on to medic training and learned, understood how the diseases he’d been inoculated against were prevalent in other countries, and how easily they killed.

John edged closer, and there it was, the wheezy, weak inhales before each cough. And the cough was definitely barky.

John met the woman’s gaze. “When you’ve changed her diaper, has it been dry?”

After Donnan translated the question, the woman looked astonished.

_ How did you know? _

“The baby’s dehydrated. Has the baby been crying without tears?”

“I dinnae ken what you mean by  _ dehydrated, _ but yes, the baby has been crying without tears.”

Definitely croup. John nodded. “Okay. Everyone but mother and baby needs to leave and leave right now. Anyone who’s had close contact with the baby needs to go home and wash their hands and faces and any other part of them that the baby might have coughed or breathed on. Everyone else who’s been living in the house needs to put on clean clothes and have the old clothes - disinfected. Boiled. Whatever.”

Donnan blinked at him, wide-eyed, and so John injected some drill sergeant into his voice. 

“Donnan! Get them moving!”

And then Donnan was speaking Gaelic at a mile a minute, herding people out of the house. At first the people were resistant, but they moved more quickly when John came toward them, and while that was irritating, it wasn’t like John hadn’t dealt with suspicious and hostile natives on overseas postings before.

The evacuation was going smoothly - various women gathering up the children and cooing at them, towing them toward their own houses, another woman handing out bars of homemade soap - when suddenly there was a block at the door, and shouting.

John had been directing the mother through sign language to elevate the baby’s head so the baby would have a better time breathing, and he turned, ready to let loose with a full on drill sergeant boom.

There were some cries and shouts, and then three more people spilled into the house over Donnan’s protests - Katie, Gilleon, and a man in a heavy black coat and cassock, with a white collar. A priest.

The priest stretched his hand toward John and boomed, “Away,  _ sassenach, _ lest you bring a curse on the child.”

The mother screamed and recoiled from John.

Of course she understood enough English to catch that.

“I’m not cursed,” John snapped. “I’m trying to help this woman.”

“This child needs the hand of God.” The priest stalked toward John. He was shorter than John, a couple of decades older, more solidly built, might have even outweighed him. Judging by the breaks in his nose, he’d been in at least one fight.

John refused to be moved. “Look, the baby’s only been sick for a couple of days. With some quick work, we can -”

“Away,  _ sassenach!” _ The priest waved his hand toward John in some kind of arcane gesture. He had curly brown hair, thick jowls, and narrow-set eyes.

“Now, Father McCowan,” Gilleon broke in, “surely we can work together? You pray over the child, we administer medicine to the child, and the child gets the best of both worlds.”

“No man can serve two masters,” Father McCowan boomed.

The mother was crying. The baby was crying and panicking and struggling to breathe, its seal-pup coughs painful to hear. Katie hurried to the woman and huddled with her, also crying.

Gilleon stepped between John and Father McCowan. “True, but all wisdom and truth comes from God, does it not? Surely any wisdom we have is from God. With God, all things are possible. Whatever shortcomings our medicine will have, God will do the rest, but we must do our part, mustn’t we? God only helps those who help themselves.”

John had never cared to study any religion, had only gone along to church services with his mother at Christmas and Easter so she didn’t have to go alone, and it had never occurred to him that knowing the contents of the Bible and basic church doctrine would be useful. Which was silly, given how knowing the Qur’an and basics of Islam had been useful when he was stationed at Bagram. 

Father McCowan actually looked like he was considering Gilleon’s logic. “Well -”

“Please, say your prayers, beg the Lord to help us with our ignorance and weakness,” Gilleon said, “and let us tend to the wee bairn.”

Father McCowan nodded, then added, “But if you try any of your witchcraft in my presence, I shall -”

“’Tis not witchcraft, ’tis medicine and science,” Gilleon said gently.

John offered Father McCowan a tentative smile. “Truce?”

Father McCowan narrowed his eyes at John. “You  _ sassenachs _ are heathens, all of you, turning away from The Pope as you have.”

“My mother was a Campbell, and she raised me in Holy Mother Church,” John said, which wasn’t precisely untrue. 

Gilleon crossed the room to the mother and began speaking to her, his voice soothing and gentle. She responded tearfully.

“She says you already asked her questions about the baby.” Gilleon glanced over his shoulder at John. “Have you diagnosed the cause of wee Helen’s illness?”

“I think it’s croup,” John said, and he was pretty sure that was the name for it even in the old days, as it were. “Judging by the sound of the cough, plus her labored breathing, and the mother’s reports of how the baby is dehydrated. That’s my best guess. That or pertussis - whooping cough. Kinkcough, I think you call it here?”

Gilleon nodded, spoke to the mother some more. She let him hold the baby, and Gilleon tilted the baby down, causing her to cough and cry some more.

“Aye, croup it is. How do you treat croup in - where in the Colonies are you from?”

“Virginia.” John crossed the room, peered into the cooking pot. It was low on water. “Donnan, fetch clean water from the well, fill the pot. Steam will help Baby Helen breathe better.”

John was mildly annoyed when Donnan looked to Gilleon for confirmation, but Gilleon nodded, and so Donnan slipped out of the house, giving Father McCowan a wide berth. Father McCowan was paging through his book of prayers, a thunderous presence beside the door.

“Back home,” John said, “if a baby had croup, I’d administer what we call antibiotics, but that’s not really an option here.”

“No, it isn’t, not exactly,” Gilleon agreed. He handed Helen back to her mother and bade her over toward the fire, which John was stoking higher, setting the water to boil. 

“What do you use?” John asked. 

Gilleon stroked Helen’s hair, expression grave. “Depends on how soon we catch the disease. Usually it’s been a week or so before anyone calls on me, and at that point all I can offer is palliative care - feverfew to ease the fever, mallow for the sore throat. As Miss Brown was wise enough to summon us to her cousin’s aid after only a day or so of symptoms, there’s hope for recovery. If we can give wee Helen a fighting chance, she can see this through. There’s a bottle of Shepherd’s Purse in my medical kit. Tea from the leaves will help Helen breathe, and also keep her warm and hydrated.”

John immediately went to poke through the box Gilleon had brought with him, a sturdy thing of dark polished wood with a handle on the lid. Gilleon’s handwriting was - messier than John had expected, but legible enough all the same. He found the Shepherd’s Purse - he’d flinched, ever so slightly, at the sound of his own last name - and set about using cheesecloth to make a tea sachet out of the leaves.

Donnan arrived with a pail of water, which he emptied into the cooking pot. John hung the kettle, full of clean water, on a hook over the fire, and waited for it to boil.

His mind raced. Shepherd’s Purse. Why Shepherd’s Purse? He’d crammed his brain full of archaic medical trivia, partially because it was important should he and a team ever be stranded behind enemy lines without access to modern medical supplies, and partially because it helped silence the chaos in his mind.

Shepherd’s Purse was a vasoconstrictor. Would work as a decongestant. Cut down on the mucus locking up Helen’s throat. Of course.

John rolled a piece of paper to use as a bit of a bullhorn to blow the steam toward Helen to help her breathe easier. Helen’s mother - Skena - propped Helen upright so her airways were more open, and relief crossed her face as Helen’s sobs subsided, as her breathing came more easily.

When the water in the kettle was audibly bubbling, John dropped the tea sachet into it. He handed the paper bullhorn to Donnan. 

“Keep blowing the steam for Helen,” he said, and had to resist the urge to make a  _ blowing off steam _ joke, which he suspected none of them would get.

Father McCowan prowled closer. “Why do you not give the child hemlock?”

John stared at him. “Because hemlock is poison.”

Father McCowan’s brow furrowed. “It is not. It -”

“Was what Socrates drank to kill himself as punishment for corrupting the youth of Athens by teaching them to think for themselves,” John said. Surely that was common knowledge. The Renaissance had happened. Classical philosophy had been rediscovered in Western Europe.

Father McCowan’s expression turned thunderous. “Socrates was a heathen and his teaching was of the devil!”

Skena slid away from John.

He gestured for her to keep Helen propped upright.

“Socrates was just a man,” John said. “Even you use his teachings.”

“How dare you slander me so!” Father McCowan crossed himself, then jabbed a finger at John. “I warned you, none of your witchcraft.”

“I’m not talking witchcraft, I’m talking both history and science,” John snapped, frustrated.

Skena flinched away from him further.

Gilleon intervened smoothly. “Father McCowan, hemlock is used for the treatment of kinkcough, but this is croup, an entirely different disease, and therefore it requires different treatment.” He put a gentle arm around Skena’s shoulders, guided her back closer to the fire so the steam Donnan was guiding from the cooking pot reached Helen and she could breathe it in.

Once the tea was steeped, John had Donnan pour it into a small bowl that Skena could use to feed Helen.

“Keep giving her the tea,” Gilleon instructed Skena, “and also let her breathe in steam as much as possible so her breathing is easier. In a few hours her fever should go down. If the fever returns, let us know, and we will come do what we can. Father McCowan, the rest is in God’s hands.”

At that, Father McCowan surged forward, his book of prayers open on one hand, his other hand outstretched. He began to chant in Latin.

Katie, who’d hovered in the opposite corner the whole time, finally approached them.

John said, “The Shepherd’s Purse tea is important. Give it to Helen till she stops coughing and has been cough-free for a couple hours. Willbowbark tea will help if a fever spikes and you can’t reach us for whatever reason.”

Katie nodded, eyes big and watery. “Thank you, John, Mr. Duncan.”

“Maybe you should also help Father McCowan and pray as well,” Gilleon said quietly. To John he said, “Let’s go, before we overstay our welcome.”

Gilleon led John and Donnan across the village square to another house, this one taller than some of the others. A maidservant greeted them at the door, took Gilleon’s medical kit from him. She offered to take John’s as well, but John shook his head, kept the basket tucked against his hip. The maidservant had a brief exchange with Donnan, who, surprisingly, remained downstairs while Gilleon led John upstairs to his own surgery.

Gilleon shrugged off his jacket, laid it over the back of the chair, so John did the same.

“You think that will be enough?” John asked. “Shepherd’s Purse?”

“It’s enough for now, to maintain the truce with Father McCowan. Shepherd’s purse will help wee Helen breathe. If she’s not better tomorrow, I’ll see about trying an infusion of marigolds.”

Marigolds, John knew, had antibiotic properties. “Infusion of marigolds for seven days, whether or not she gets better before then?”

Gilleon nodded. “Yes.” He cast John a look, part amusement, part something else. “Come, see if any of my wares tickle your fancy.” 

Compared to John’s surgery, Gilleon’s was a veritable treasure trove. He had floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books, vials, bottles, and jars. The ceiling was a forest of herbs hanging to dry. He had mortars and pestles, cutting boards, an assortment of knives and spoons, and also what looked like a distillation apparatus.

“Wow,” John said. “Why aren’t you the castle healer or charmer or what have you?”

“The castle surgery serves at the behest of The Mitchell and his household,” Gilleon said. “I have more freedom to see patients in this village and the surrounding areas.”

“I’m mostly working with what Widow McLachlan left behind,” John said. “And I’m not sticking around for long. Shipping out on Saturday. She left behind a massive book. I started reading through it. Some of it tracks with what I’ve learned in my personal studies, but some of it is -”

“Hogwash?” Gilleon suggested.

“Unusual,” John offered diplomatically.

Gilleon laughed. “When I took up post as the village charmer, I came into possession of various volumes of medical knowledge and recipes for remedies, some more effective than others.”

“How long have you been the village charmer?”

“Going on five years now.”

“Where are you from, originally?”

“Edinburgh.”

John squinted at Gilleon’s kilt. “Are you a Mitchell, then? I’m not so good and identifying tartan patterns on sight.”

“Ah, no. I’m technically a Lowlander, which also doesn’t endear me to the locals.”

“I can only imagine,” John said dryly. “Did you always want to be a healer?”

“Aye. I’ve always known it was my true calling - to help the people of Scotland have better lives. And yourself?”

“Medicine was a bit of a secondary aspect to my work,” John said. 

“Music, then, is your vocation?”

Music had been lower on the totem pole than medicine, as far as John’s superiors were concerned.

“Helping people,” he said. “That and - mathematics.”

Gilleon raised his eyebrows. “Mathematics?”

“Yeah. I studied mathematics at - Harvard.” It pained John to say it, but he knew, from many lengthy lectures from his father on the subject, that Harvard was the oldest university in America and every Sheppard Man since time immemorial had gone there.

“Rodney is quite fond of physics,” Gilleon said. “The Mitchell has a good collection of books, but I’ve some volumes not found in The Mitchell’s study.”

“Rodney? I thought he was a blacksmith.”

“Aye, a master smith, and a very skilled one, too. But smithing is not his passion, I don’t think.” Gilleon scooped up the heavy volume that lay open on his work bench. “This is my personal reference. I’ve written it myself. Mr. Lorne has a fair hand, helps with the diagrams.”

_ Fair hand _ was an understatement. John accepted the volume carefully. The ink drawings of the human body - skeleton, muscles, nerves, veins and arteries, detailed studies of hands and eyes and vital organs - were almost photographic, they were so lifelike.

John smoothed a hand over the perfect cursive. It didn’t match the handwriting he’d seen on some of the bottle labels.

“Well, I compose it,” Gilleon said. “Mr. Lorne’s handwriting is a fair sight better than mine. I suppose I was always meant to be a doctor, aye?” He waggled one of the bottles with a scrawled label and laughed, and John laughed with him.

Gilleon showed off his distillation apparatus, and his tincturing apparatus, and the system he had, for bundling, hanging, and drying herbs. The were in a rotation along the ceiling beams, so he knew at a glance which were ready and which needed to dry further.

John was impressed with the man’s work and genuinely puzzled as to why he wasn’t the castle healer. But he was a Lowlander, and John was fast learning that family politics were a powerful thing in this era. He was curious about Rodney’s interest in physics. Physics required a lot of high-level math, and thanks to Newton, calculus was available to help solve questions of physics. Maybe a nice physics book would keep Rodney out of the smithy and less likely to damage his still-healing shoulder.

Gilleon’s maid brought them lunch by way of hearty stew and bannocks to sop up the broth. They paused and ate, chatting about their childhoods. John told Gilleon in vague terms about Dave, his younger brother. Gilleon spoke of his mother, a gentle, sensitive soul, who’d loved growing flowers. John hadn’t realized he’d missed breakfast till the maid appeared with the food, and he ate ravenously, earning Gilleon’s amusement.

“You need to keep up your strength if you wish to serve the people well,” Gilleon said.

John shrugged. “Yeah, well, shoot first, ask questions later, as it were.”

Gilleon laughed.

“What do you know about the Mitchell’s condition?” John asked.

Gilleon’s expression turned somber. “Unfortunate. Since childhood, he’s suffered.”

“Is there no way to treat it?”

“Widow McLachlan did her best to ease the pain, but there is nae much more to be done.”

“The Mitchell - he’s living on borrowed time, isn’t he?”

“Aye.”

John didn’t have nearly the expertise to heal the man, and he suspected any offers of palliative care would be refused, especially since The Mitchell was self-medicating with his beloved wine. “It’s a shame. Seeing how strong Cameron is, I can only imagine what Himself would have been like.”

“Indeed.”

They spoke some more, of bone diseases and setting broken bones, helping them heal, what pain-relieving remedies they knew, and John felt - calm. Happy. It was almost like playing music with Dave.

Dave, who was probably worried sick about him. John’s good humor vanished, and he tried to sneak a glance at his watch.

“Will I be seeing you tonight?” Gilleon asked, as he walked John to the door.

Donnan was still in the house, pestering the maid.

She looked relieved when she saw John, nudged Donnan, and Donnan jumped to attention.

So The Mitchell trusted Gilleon, then. That was a good sign. Perhaps spending time with Gilleon would be respite from Donnan constantly dogging John’s heels.

“Tonight?” John asked.

“Aye, at the castle,” Gilleon said.

“We’ll be there,” Donnan said. He caught John by the wrist. “We’d best be getting back.” He inclined his head politely to the maid, said something in Gaelic to Gilleon that earned a bit of a sharp retort, and then hustled John out the door, John’s work basket in hand.

“Did you have to be rude to him?” John asked.

Donnan muttered under his breath, made the sign of the cross. “Hurry up,  _ sassenach. _ Lady Amelia will be wanting your services some more.”

“My name is John,” he snapped, yanking his wrist free. And he sped up.

He got back to the castle in good time, set aside his medkit basket, and grabbed his guitar. Donnan had just caught up to him when John headed back up to the kitchen, checked in with Janet, and then trotted up the stairs to the room where Lady Amelia and her ladies did their sewing.

“Dinnae be so grabbit, John,” Donnan protested. 

John made it to the landing outside of Lady Amelia’s rooms and paused, took a deep breath. Then another. “I’m not a  _ child. _ If I need to be somewhere, tell me, and I’ll get there. But you better keep your hands to yourself from now on.”

Donnan searched John’s expression, nodded, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Aye. I ken.”

“Good.” John turned and knocked on Lady Amelia’s door.

She called for him to enter, and what followed was pretty much the same as the last time he’d played for them. He reprised any songs they requested that he play again, and when those ran out, he offered up some more Johnny Cash songs - One, Heart of Gold, He Stopped Loving Her Today. John sipped some tea (he couldn’t keep drinking watered-down wine, and hot tea with honey was best for his voice) and was pretty sure he was done when Katie piped up.

“Will you play that one song? About really loving a woman.”

“Ah, sure, if that’s all right with Lady Amelia.”

Lady Amelia glanced at Katie, then nodded. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Lee.”

John drank some more tea, flexed his hands. “All right. Here goes.”

Several women fished handkerchiefs out of their pockets and started fanning themselves. John blinked. Donnan made a noise that was suspiciously like laughter badly disguised as a cough.

Seriously? Could Donnan be less subtle and unhelpful? Well, John’s survival at this point was more or less contingent upon The Mitchell’s goodwill, so if the ladies wanted that Bryan Adams song of dubious quality and taste (but admittedly fine guitar work), the ladies got it.

John strummed the opening riff, eased into the fancy flamenco pick-work, and tried not to think of Nancy while he sang.

When the song ended, the ladies applauded, and John drank the last of his tea. 

“Anything further?” he asked, deliberately ignoring the way Donnan was coughing and some of the ladies were blushing and fanning themselves energetically.

“Thank you, Mr. Lee,” Lady Amelia said, inclining her head graciously. “We always appreciate you sharing your musical talents.”

John packed up his guitar, bade the women his farewells, and ducked out of the room. Donnan dogged his heels, as always, and together they headed down the stairs, back toward the surgery so John could stow his guitar and also have a chat with Janet about the hearing of the cases tonight. Would he be expected to provide entertainment? Was he supposed to dress up extra fancy?

And then it occurred to him. Tonight would be the perfect chance to run away. Everyone important would be gathered in the great hall. All eyes would be on The Mitchell. Unless they expected him to serenade - and he wouldn’t ask if he was supposed to, so as not to give anyone any ideas - no one would miss him. The trick, of course, would be dodging Donnan.

John paused in the kitchen to speak to Janet, see if his services were needed in any further capacity. While The Mitchell ruled the castle and Cameron was his enforcer, Janet (under Amelia’s supervision) ran the household. She smiled at him, thanked him for tending to wee Helen, who was her niece, and assured him that his services were no longer needed, and she would see him in the great hall for the hearing of cases.

Tonight, then. John’s best chance to escape. He’d need to be well-rested, then.

He did as he’d done many times before when he’d been on active duty, out in the field - he flopped down on his cot fully-dressed, closed his eyes, and napped.


	8. Chapter 8

John came awake before Donnan could put a hand on him.

Donnan recoiled, startled.

“I was just resting my eyes,” John said easily. 

Evan came trotting down the stairs. He was dressed in a cleaner, newer jacket, and he had part of his plaid pulled up and pinned at his left shoulder. 

“I did manage to find a Campbell pin,” he said, and held out a large circular clasp. “For the Hearings.”

“Thanks,” John said. He stood up, smoothed down his plaid as best as he could. 

Evan and Donnan swarmed him, Donnan patting down John’s jacket and Evan helping John pin a section of plaid to his shoulder. The amount of dust that flew off of John’s jacket under Donnan’s hands was mildly alarming, but then they were hustling him up the stairs and through the kitchen to the great hall.

They sat at their usual table with Rodney, who launched into a diatribe about a new farrier he was training, an Irishman named Cavanaugh who was borderline incompetent and deserved a clip round the ear every other moment. Partway through the meal, Gilleon came to join them. He looked dashing in a dark blue jacket and pale cravat, his plaid pinned to his shoulder with a gleaming silver kilt pin. He sat down beside John, and Katie brought him a platter full of food.

As on evenings previous, Katie was perfectly polite to everyone at the table and extra-attentive to Rodney, who barely noticed her. She could have sat in his lap and he would not have noticed. He would have simply called her clumsy, set her back on her feet, and kept on pontificating to Evan about how blacksmithing was a simple concept. 

“Move the metal while it’s hot. If it’s not hot, you’re not moving it, and you’re accomplishing nothing. Worse, you might  _ break _ the metal. The boy is neither blind, deaf, nor insensate. He can tell when the metal is hot. I dinnae ken his heed, other than that there may be nothing in it.” Rodney shook his head and wolfed down some meat. 

Katie refilled his wine goblet.

He glanced at her, thanked her, and jabbed his fork at Donnan. “This one, on his first day, did better than that whelp Cavanaugh has done in  _ weeks.” _

“I’m not sure if I should be proud or insulted,” Donnan said. He waved his goblet at Katie, and after a moment she noticed him, refilled it.

Katie cast John a hopeful look, and he was confused. Did she expect him to whip out his guitar so she could serenade Rodney on the spot? Maybe she just wanted a bit of help. It wasn’t like John had never talked up a friend for a lady or talked to a lady for a friend before. Granted, he usually talked to a lady to embarrass his friend, but - Katie was a sweet girl. And Rodney seemed like he was very high-strung.

“Maybe if you spent less time swinging a hammer and more time with a lovely lady, you’d be less angry and be more at - peace,” John offered.

Rodney frowned. “Lady? What lovely lady?”

“Er - a bonnie lass?” John tried.

Rodney glanced around and overlooked Katie entirely. “I’m sure if a bonnie enough lass presented herself I’d notice her, but my work is important. I’m not just turning out horseshoes. My improvements to current edge geometry on dirks and swords is -”

“Cutting-edge?” John suggested.

“Obviously,” Rodney snapped.

Evan, Donnan, and Gilleon looked amused.

Katie looked broken-hearted.

John nudged Gilleon. “How is wee Helen?” 

“I’ve not heard anything further, but Katie does nae look distressed, so.” Gilleon shrugged. “Are there any cases you like to hear especially?”

“I was never much for the whole Judge Judy thing,” John said. He remembered his own court martial after everything that went down with Holland, and he remembered it bitterly.

“Judge Judy?” Donnan perked up. “Women can be judges in America?”

“It’s a - saying,” John said finally. “What about you? What cases do you like to hear?”

Gilleon enjoyed hearing about interpersonal disputes. Those told him what a community was made of. Donnan liked to hear the really salacious disputes - cheating spouses, elopement, alienation of affection, all of it. Evan thought it was useful, to understand the best ways to dispense justice.

“Best way to dispense justice is with a sword,” Donnan said.

“No,” Evan said quietly, “that’s the last resort.”

Donnan, Rodney, Evan, and Gilleon fell into a spirited debate all in Gaelic, leaving John to finish his meal in silence, contemplating the best way to get out of the castle. He knew how to get toward the village, but the village wasn’t what he wanted. He had a compass and a knife. He knew which way Inverness was. If he got a hat to cover his hair, that would help. His combat boots were distinctive, with their laces. He still had the boots Evan had tried to get him to wear the first time. They were pull-ons. He could handle those.

Once The Mitchell officially declared supper over, maids and kitchen boys swept through the great hall, clearing away dishes and plates and goblets and leftover food. The boys moved fast, avarice in their eyes, because there was plenty of leftover food to be had. John moved fast. He nudged Katie toward Rodney, suggested that she ask for a time to have a private audience with him, sing her song, and her eyes lit up. As soon as she moved toward him, Evan, Gilleon, and Donnan noticed. John scooped up a stack of plates and followed several kitchen boys toward the kitchen. He deposited them on the nearest table, then ducked down to the surgery. He stripped off his boots, found the old-fashioned ones, tugged them on, bundled his boots and satchel into a blanket, tied it all up. 

He started for the stairs, paused. His guitar. It was distinctive. He had to leave it behind.

No matter. He could always get a new one.

John drifted through the kitchen at the same pace as some of the other kitchen boys, keeping his bundle low. He slipped down the side corridor that led to the courtyard, paused in the shadowed doorway. One guard on each wall, facing outward, not inward. Shadows along the walls. The courtyard was quiet, but for the occasional animal snuffles and clucks and grunts in the livestock pens.

First stop: stables. A horse would give John a much bigger head start on his pursuers. He was a skilled enough horseman that he could take one of the stronger, faster horses. He’d turn the horse loose if anyone got suspicious. It’d find its way home. 

John slid out of the corridor and into the courtyard, kept close to the walls, stayed in the shadows. He kept an eye on the walltop guards and also the light spilling from the windows and doors, wary of the light levels changing - could mean people passing by, could mean someone looking out the window. He reached the stables undetected and headed through the stalls toward the horse he recognized as the one he and Rodney had rode in on. It was strong, healthy, well-bred, and John had enough rapport with the animal that it would obey his commands without Rodney present.

Where was the tack? Technically he knew how to ride bareback, but he hadn’t done it since he was a kid, and certainly not while wearing a kilt commando. He’d have a better chance of going undetected if he was bareback, though. He’d look less like a castle denizen. Or would not having a properly outfitted horse make him look even more like a horse thief?

“There you are.”

John’s heart jumped into his throat. He spun around.

Rodney, still favoring his left arm, stood in the castleward doorway. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,  _ sassenach. _ You’re needed in the - what are you doing?”

John drew his knife from his sporran. “I’m leaving.”

Rodney raised his eyebrows.

“Step aside, Rodney. I don’t want to mess up all my own handiwork at getting you patched up, but I’m not staying here any longer.” John dropped his bundle, settled into a combat stance.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “And just where do you plan on going? You don’t know your way around the Highlands.”

“I know how to get back to Inverness, and I’m going to find my brother.”

“On a horse you don’t even know?” Rodney lifted his chin at the horse John had planned on taking.

“I ride just fine.”

“You wouldn’t even make it out the castle gate before the fighting men fell upon you.”

That gave John pause. “Fighting men?”

“Aye, all of them, in addition to the regular castle guards. Himself wouldnae leave the castle unguarded while all the courtiers and local denizens were gathered inside. Were a rival clan to attack, Clan Mitchell would be almost entirely wiped out.” Rodney’s hand was on the hilt of his dirk, John realized.

For all that Rodney reminded John of some of the blustery civilians he worked with, all drama and griping and endless complaints, he’d witnessed Rodney’s pain tolerance and combat-savvy firsthand. Rodney belonged to an era where men literally had to fight to survive. He wouldn’t be an easy opponent.

“Why do they need me in the great hall?” John asked. If they needed him specifically, he’d definitely be missed. Dammit.

Rodney’s expression turned grim. “It’s Miss Brown. She’s in trouble.”

“Katie? Why?”

“Her father has accused her of kissing you.”

“What? No!”

“Then come defend yourself - and her.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Her father will have her beaten.”

John cursed under his breath. The things he hated about this time and place just kept piling up. “Fine. The Mitchell is letting me go in a couple of days anyway.” He sheathed his knife and put it back in his sporran, scooped up his bundle.

Rodney led him back toward the castle, was kind enough to detour down to the surgery so John could drop off his gear.

“Why bother trying to run away, then? If you can just leave peaceably in two days.”

John shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.” For all that Rodney was a hobby physicist, there was no way he could even begin to comprehend what John had left behind. 

He followed Rodney into the great hall. The Mitchell sat in his usual chair at the head of the room, though all the tables and benches had been pushed against the walls. Lady Amelia sat off to the side, surrounded by her maids. An audience made of seemingly the entire castle and Cranesmuir population stood facing The Mitchell. Heads turned when John and Rodney entered, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.

Katie stood before The Mitchell, shoulders hunched, head bowed. She looked terrified. The man who stood beside her bore some family resemblance - hair color, the shape of his chin - but he was broad and red-faced and looked furious. He jabbed a finger at her, shouting. Katie ducked her head further.

Rodney cleared his throat, spoke in Gaelic. Katie’s father spun around, saw John, and broke into another angry, unintelligible rant.

John put a hand on Rodney’s shoulder. “What’s he saying?”

“He’s saying you’ve seduced Miss Brown with your  _ sassenach  _ heathen charms,” Rodney murmured, and then addressed The Mitchell in Gaelic.

“I have not,” John said flatly.

Rodney translated dutifully.

Katie’s father shouted some more, jabbed a finger in John’s direction.

Rodney said, “He says you’ve been seen, going into a room with her alone.”

“What? When?” John was affronted, and a little terrified. Was this some kind of ruse, to get him into trouble, to see him punished or held captive longterm?

Rodney raised his eyebrows. “Earlier today.”

“No, never, not once,” John said. “I’ve always had Donnan with me. On The War Chief’s orders.”

The Mitchell addressed Donnan in Gaelic. John guessed from the way Katie’s father turned a furious shade of purple that Donnan was vouching for John.

The Mitchell lifted his head, called out, and Cameron stepped forward from the front of the crowd. Cameron addressed his elder brother, head held high.

John nudged Rodney. “What are they saying?” 

“Donnan says he has been with you all day today, and Cameron is confirming that he ordered Donnan to be your escort, given the language barrier that exists,” Rodney said. Judging by his rueful expression, he knew the true reason Donnan was acting as John’s shadow day and night, but this was neither the time nor place to air that. 

Katie’s father jabbed a finger in Donnan’s direction, and Katie began to weep.

Rodney rolled his eyes.

“What now?”

“Mr. Brown is accusing his daughter of being indecent with  _ two _ men,” Rodney said.

John threw his hands up. “There’s no winning, is there? Katie’s been condemned from the start.”

The Mitchell raised his eyebrows. “You’ve something to add, Mr. Lee?”

“Yes,” John said. “Neither Donnan nor I were being  _ indecent _ with Katie. She wanted to learn a song and asked me to teach her, and when we met together, with Donnan as a chaperone, it was so she could practice her song.”

Rodney translated John’s response.

Mr. Brown crossed his arms over his chest, lifted his chin. His words needed no translation.  _ Prove it. _

John met his gaze. “All right. Someone get me my guitar. And someone get Katie a spoonful of honey. Her voice will be tight from crying.”

Janet ducked toward the kitchen, and Evan followed. Janet returned moments later, put her arm around Katie’s shoulders, gave her a little cup of something steaming, hopefully honey tea. The crowd parted once more when Evan reappeared, carrying John’s guitar case. Patrick Sheppard had always been dubious about John’s choice in pursuing the guitar as his artistic implement of choice. Would he ever believe that John’s musical skills had done the most for his continued survival two and a half centuries into the past?

“C’mere, Katie.” John unzipped his guitar case, lifted out his guitar, tugged the strap over his head. He tested the strings to see if there were in tune.

She started toward him hesitantly. Mr. Brown barked at her, and she squeaked, but then Janet ushered her closer to John.

He strummed the opening chord. “Do you remember?”

Katie nodded. 

“Think you can sing it? Just like we practiced.”

Katie started to nod, bit her lip. She started to glance toward her father, but John said, “No. Just like we practiced. Your audience is me and Donnan.” Then he lowered his voice and added, “Here’s your chance. If you want it. Your intended audience is here.”

As soon as John said it, he regretted it, because the last thing Katie would want to do after being accused of kissing a man was attempt to woo the man she loved. But Katie lifted her chin, smiled at Rodney, and said, “Yes, just as we practiced.”

So John started to play. He had to play through the intro twice before Katie started in, but then she began to sing, and she really didn’t do herself justice, because her voice was more than passing fair. When she held her head high and threw her shoulders back and had good posture, her voice was sweet and clear. Even though her eyes were red and her face was splotchy, her smile was radiant. She was smiling right at Rodney, and Rodney looked - charmed. Flattered. Was smiling himself, and his smile was something else.

John kept playing. Donnan was humming a soft harmony.

When the song finally ended, Lady Amelia applauded, and the audience joined in politely a beat too late.

Mr. Brown looked furious. He jabbed a finger at Rodney and spoke it rapid-fire Gaelic. Rodney fired back. It was Gilleon who slid forward, put a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Mr. Brown accuses Rodney of stealing his daughter’s affections.” Gilleon’s gaze darted back and forth between Rodney and Mr. Brown. “Rodney, of course, denies that he has in any way invited Katie’s affections.”

Katie had shrunk in on herself once more, and Janet, who’d stepped aside so she could sing, moved closer once more, a protective arm around her shoulders.

Rodney addressed himself to Katie in Gaelic. She was nodding and sniffling, though she didn’t look nearly as upset as she had when her father had been yelling.

Gilleon continued to translate. “Rodney apologizes, says Katie’s a bonnie lass, will be a fine and true wife, but he cannot be the good husband she deserves, as poor as his circumstances are.”

Rodney was a Mitchell, though. Not just kin, like Maxwell, but an actual Mitchell. Unless he wasn’t blood kin, had adopted the surname for practical purposes? Though Cameron did call him a cousin. Was Clan Mitchell generally poor, outside of Cameron and Fergus’s direct lines? Except John knew Rodney wasn’t actually a Mitchell. Did Katie know that?

Mr. Brown jabbed his finger in John’s direction again, started to shout.

Gilleon frowned. “Mr. Brown is angry that you taught Katie a love song -”

Rodney cut Mr. Brown off with a sharp gesture and began to speak, steady and unrelenting, his gaze icy.

Gilleon’s hand on Rodney’s shoulder tightened. “Rodney says it is clear that Katie has more than a passing fair voice and that her honor is intact. He says it is also clear is that this man wants to see his daughter punished for something, anything, even something made-up, and if Mr. Brown is that determined to see someone hurt, let it be Rodney, because Rodney can take it.”

John thought of the scars on Rodney’s back, how he’d been flogged twice in one week, how he’d had his shoulder dislocated and been stabbed and had an infected wound not days before. He glanced at Gilleon. Judging by Gilleon’s grim expression, he was aware of Rodney’s recent run of injuries as well.

“No,” John began, but The Mitchell silenced him with a look, spoke to Rodney.

Whatever Rodney said made The Mitchell nod, and then he turned to Mr. Brown, who spoke slowly, warily.

“What’s going to happen?” John hissed.

“Fists,” Gilleon said. “Till blood is drawn.”

John had seen men die quickly. He’d seen men die slowly. He’d seen women and children die, too. He wasn’t going to stand there and watch a defenseless man be beaten. Katie buried her face in her hands with a sob, and Janet drew her away into the crowd, likely out of the great hall altogether.

Mr. Brown swung at Rodney.

There was a collective inhale in the audience as fist connected with flesh.

John hadn’t even realized it, but he was halfway toward them, guitar poised to bludgeon Mr. Brown, when Donnan and Evan caught him, dragged him backward.

“No,  _ sassenach,” _ Evan hissed. “’Tis The Mitchell’s will. Let them finish.”

Mr. Brown was old and heavy, not nearly as young and strong as Rodney, but he was by no means weak either. It only took him two hits before Rodney’s lip was split, blood dripping down his chin.

The Mitchell questioned Mr. Brown sharply, and the man nodded, bowed, retreated into the audience. The Mitchell dismissed Rodney with a wave of his hand, and Rodney started back the way he’d come with John, toward the stables.

John lunged, caught his wrist. “You’re coming with me. I’m checking your stupid face  _ and _ your other wounds.”

Rodney rolled his eyes, tried to tug free, but then Evan and Donnan stepped forward as well, and together the three of them herded Rodney, still protesting, down to the surgery. John handed his guitar off to Donnan, sent him to fetch some water for boiling.

Donnan hesitated, and Evan said, “I’ll stay with them.”

Donnan opened his mouth to protest, but Evan flicked a meaningful glance at Rodney, and Donnan nodded, headed up the stairs. Evan took up post at the bottom of the stairs, pointedly facing away from where Rodney and John were sitting on the cot Rodney had occupied previously.

John unfastened Rodney’s sling, helped him off with his jacket and waistcoat, started to reach for his shirt, but Rodney stayed his hand.

“Donnan doesn’t know you were flogged?” John asked in a low voice.

Rodney’s expression was dispassionate. “He knows, but he’s never seen. It’s not the same.”

“Fair enough. Let’s get some plantain on that lip to stop the bleeding, and once I have some boiling water I can check your stitches. You’ll need to get them out in the next week. I’m sure Gilleon can do it.”

“Gilleon’s a quack. Why don’t you do it?”

“I won’t be here, remember?”

Was it John’s imagination, or did Rodney look disappointed? Before John could inquire further, Donnan reappeared with a jug full of water. John ordered him to fill the kettle over the fire, and then he was dismissed till further notice; Evan would keep an eye on things.

Donnan obeyed, for once without question or comment or saucy expression, and scampered back up the stairs once more. 

As soon as Donnan was gone, John helped Rodney off with his shirt so he could rub some pain-relieving ointment into his shoulder and then check his stitches, make sure there was no redness or swelling, heat or discharge. Evan kept his back turned the entire time.

John snatched the kettle off of the fire right as it hit boiling so it would cool quickly to a useable temperature. He poured some of the water into a washbasin, then dipped a bandage into the water and used it to clean around the stitches and the cut at Rodney’s lip, which made him wince. John dabbed some plantain ointment on the cut as well for good measure.

While he and Rodney were sitting close together, John had an excuse to speak to him in a low voice. Evan would assume it was whatever version of doctor-patient confidentiality that existed back then.

“I know your last name isn’t really Mitchell,” John said.

Rodney’s eyes went wide.

“Everyone looks confused when I refer to you as Mitchell.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, senior members of the household, like the Laird and the Lady. Katie. Evan. Donnan. Janet. I wondered why you told Katie you were poor - clearly the Mitchells aren’t - and then I remembered.”

Rodney’s lips parted beneath John’s fingertips, and he swallowed hard. “It’s - I’m wanted. For murder.”

John froze.

Rodney shook his head. “I committed no murder, but when I escaped from Fort William, from Black Bill, a soldier died, and they blamed me. There’s a bounty on my head, and those less scrupulous than my cousins would turn me over in an instant.” He kept his voice low.

“So you really are Cameron’s cousin?”

“Aye. My mam was a Mitchell, sister to their father.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Meredith Rodney McKay.”

“McKay.” John darted a glance at Evan, who was still resolutely guarding the stairs. “So Evan -”

“His family has always served mine,” Rodney said. “We grew up together. Fought in France together. He might have married my sister Jeannie, but after what happened with Black Bill - he helped me escape the Fort.”

John darted another glance at Evan, observing him with new respect. To Rodney he said, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you. Although if the English come for me in my sleep, I’ll know who to thank.”

“I  _ promise,” _ John said, low and fierce.

Rodney’s gaze darkened. “A promise is no light thing.”

“I know,” John said. “I promise, I won’t tell anyone who you really are. Now come on, let’s get your clothes back on before Donnan dies of anxiety.”

Rodney studied John for a long time. Then he said, “Thank you, John Lee.”

John wished he could tell Rodney his real name.

It didn’t matter, though. In a couple of days, he would be gone.


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, John woke with the noise of the kitchen. Donnan awoke at about the same time. While John went about his morning ablutions - hand-bath, shaving as best as he could with a straight razor - Donnan made himself useful by stoking the fire and folding John’s plaid. 

No wonder Evan had had a spare McKay plaid to hand. It must have been Rodney’s. He’d likely be wanting it back, before John departed. He’d talk to Evan, see about getting a different one to wear. He wasn’t all that keen on wearing Mitchell colors - although perhaps wearing Mitchell colors while on Mitchell land would give him a measure of safety. Or anonymity if he ran.

No point in running, though. He was leaving tomorrow.

John dressed for the day, then waited patiently while Donnan straightened himself up, and the two of them headed up to the kitchens to greet Janet. She gave Donnan a bowl of porridge and John a plate of bannocks, cream, and jam.

“Who needs medical attention today?” John asked, standing off to the side of one of the counters, plate in hand. He hoped not wee Helen.

“I’ve a list,” Janet said. “It’s a short one, but they’re good folk, can use all the help they can get.”

“Donnan and I will do our best.” John sipped some hot tea gratefully. “By the way, today is my last day. I leave for Inverness with Mr. Petrie tomorrow. Evan was kind enough to let me borrow some McKay plaid while I’m here, but I was wondering if there was a chance I could acquire one of my own. Campbell, for my mother’s kin, if I may. I’d be willing to earn some money for it.”

Janet nodded. “Of course. I do believe that can be arranged. And no need for money. You’re here at his Lordship’s request.” She patted John’s hand.

“Thank you,” John said, as sincerely as possible, but he was nervous. Was that what The Mitchell was telling people? That John was actually some kind of guest? John knew he was still alive at Cameron’s sufferance, and that he hadn’t been thrown into the dungeons straight away at The Mitchell’s sufferance, though a liberal application of musical talent and medical skill had contributed toward that.

Janet smacked Donnan across the hand with a wooden spoon when he tried to steal more porridge, and then she handed John a list of patients and their ailments.

John scanned it. To Donnan he said, “You’re not going to want to eat anything more. Let’s prepare to face the day.”

Janet hadn’t been lying. The list of patients was short, only three. John saw to them quickly - a boy with a broken toe that John buddy-wrapped, a girl with a sore throat for which John prescribed honey and mallow tea, and an old man with diarrhea for whom John recommended toasted bread and boiled, mashed apples (applesauce). Donnan did his best to be helpful, was much less squeamish than on their last medical run, and when they finished, he suggested a trip out to the corral to see about breaking in a new horse.

John remembered that Donnan was, by trade, a horsebreaker, which was why he’d been so unhappy about helping Rodney in the smithy. As John had grown up around horses, he didn’t mind spending time around them. Plus a trip out to the corral on the edges of the castle proper would give him the lay of the land a bit more (just in case). So John accepted, and together they headed back toward the surgery so John could set down his gear.

As they were crossing the courtyard, piping children’s voices rang in the air. John was all right with children. When he’d been posted in Korea, most of the kids he’d dealt with had been other servicemembers’ kids on base, kids who were cooped up and bored and for the most part bitter about being dragged halfway around the world from home. In Afghanistan, most of the kids John had dealt with were locals who were curious about his hair and his gun and his chopper and wanted to try their bad English on him (though their English was, as a general rule, miles better than his Pashto). He’d played his guitar for a group of kids, once. For some reason - he suspected a group of Marines posted there previously - the kids could sing (rather uncomprehendingly) all of Journey’s greatest hits.

John paused, watched the children - three boys - batting at each other with wooden sticks, swordplay. What was fun for them now would be a life skill later. As a child, John and Dave had played Cops and Robbers, but John had never believed he’d actually carry a gun one day. 

Cameron was crossing the courtyard, looking like a man on a mission, and one of the boys turned, lunged at him with the wooden stick.

Cameron spun out of the way, hand going to the blade at his hip. John went to call out, tell him the kids were just playing, but then Cameron scooped up a stick, parried when the boy lunged again with a fierce cry. What followed was a mock battle, Cameron and the boy dancing back and forth, thrusting and parrying. The other two boys were cheering, one for Cameron, one for the boy whose name was Ash. There was a tense moment when Ash and Cameron locked weapons, and then Ash gave a mighty heave and twisted his wrist, and Cameron’s stick went flying.

Ash lunged in again for a kill shot, and Cameron folded dramatically over the stick with a creditable death-groan. Ash dropped his stick and raised his fists over his head with a cheer while Cameron staggered. Then Cameron straightened up, lunged after Ash to give chase. 

“Run, run!” Ash’s friends cried, and Ash took off, but Cameron caught him, scooped him up, tickling him.

The joy on Cameron’s face transformed him. He was a loving father. Ash looked just like him, from the blue eyes to the wide grin as he laughed and squirmed in Cameron’s arms.

And then Lady Amelia said, “Ash, dinnae be a bother to the War Chief.” She stood at the edge of the courtyard, in one of the doorways.

Cameron sobered immediately, set Ash on his feet. He leaned down, dusted Ash off, smoothed a lock of hair back from his face.

“You’d best mind your mother, Angus,” Cameron said, his expression strained.

“Yes, Uncle.” Ash scrambled to his mother’s side, pressed close as she led him back into the castle.

For one moment, Cameron watched them go, something stricken in his eyes. Then he spoke to the other two boys, reminded them to be about their chores, and continued on his way.

John glanced at Donnan, who’d also watched the exchange. Donnan caught John’s eye and shrugged, said nothing, continued on to the kitchens. While Donnan attempted to wheedle more food out of the kitchen maids, John set his portable surgery basket down on the table, and then he and Donnan headed for the corral outside the castle walls.

“Is there any way I could get a cap?” John asked. “Autumn in the Highlands is chilly, and unlike the rest of you I have neither long hair nor an epic beard.”

“I reckon Janet or Evan could find you one.” Donnan was in the lead, ambling along, head tipped back to enjoy what he could of the late morning sunlight. He was gamin-faced, and his poor social graces and endless hunger told John that however he’d been raised, it hadn’t been easy.

John cleared his throat. “So - horse breaking. You said your father taught you?”

“He was a horse breaker. I watched him, all the time. Learned what I could. After he and Mam passed, I struck out on my own. The War Chief took me in. I broke Master Ash’s favorite horse.” Donnan drew himself up proudly.

Ash was maybe ten years old.

“How old are you?” 

“Just gone fifteen.”

John knew that shorter lifespans forced maturity on children at younger ages, but Donnan was still a child. How had John ever thought anything different? Because Donnan carried himself tall, and was strong, and was fierce in battle. 

“And your mother was a Mitchell, yes?”

“Aye. Cousin to Himself and the War Chief.” Donnan glanced at him. “You sit your horse well, for a _ sassenach _ minstrel.”

“My father had many fine horses. I could ride almost before I could walk.” John had done a lot of things his peers in the Air Force had not. He’d started equestrian lessons when he was about five, golf and ski lessons when he was six. He’d gone to the best boarding schools money could buy.

“Can you break a horse?”

“Never learned. I only ever got horses after they were broken.” John eyed Donnan. “Do you make good money, breaking horses?”

“My da did, till he fell ill. I break horses for Himself, I have food and a place to sleep. And I’m one of the fighting men.” Donnan grinned fiercely.

“Is Evan one of the fighting men?”

“No, he’s not a Mitchell. He’s a farrier. Not a master smith like Rodney, but he can help Rodney in the forge. Also he writes, for people. Letters and the like, to be sent. Or he draws, if the people what receive the letters cannae read.” 

John remembered the drawings he’d seen in Gilleon’s book. “I bet he’s good at that.”

“He’s very good.” 

The corral and paddock were in a field beyond the castle walls in the opposite direction of Cranesmuir, but on the same side of the castle as the stables, which made sense. Both corral and paddock had the same simple, crooked wooden fences. Between them was a small shelter filled with hay, a feeding trough, a water trough, and some basic tack gear. A couple of colts were tied up beside the water trough. An old man was snoring on a bale of hay, hands clasped on his corpulent belly, pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth.

Donnan hopped the fence and into the corral where a lone horse was grazing on the tall swaying grass.

The horse snorted and backed away from him.

John leaned on the fence and watched as Donnan crooned gently to the horse, extended a hand. Sure enough, the horse edged toward him, cautious. Donnan reached into the folds of his kilt and came up with an apple, which he offered up on a flat palm. The horse shuffled closer. Donnan clicked his tongue, and the horse came even closer. It lipped at his hand, closed its teeth around the apple, and Donnan reached up very carefully with his other hand, stroked its nose. 

The stillness, calmness on his face was something John had never seen before. Donnan’s smile was sunny and sweet. He murmured softly to the horse in Gaelic, and the horse pressed closer, nuzzled at him. Donnan rested his forehead against the horse’s nose.

With a pang, John remembered his favorite horse from when he was a child, a sleek brown Arabian with a line of white down her nose. Bonnie, he’d called her. Of course she’d had some ridiculous name on her pedigree certificate, like Sahara Jasmine, but he’d called her Bonnie, and that was that. Riding - and especially jumping - had always been an escape for him. A thrill. The first time he and Bonnie had soared over a fence (and made a break for freedom across the Sheppard Estate and for the nearby hills) John had felt like he was flying. He’d been chasing that sensation ever since. Much to his father’s chagrin, John had spent hours in the stables, grooming Bonnie, mending her tack, brushing her down, feeding her. He’d wanted to learn to shoe her, but his father had put his foot down.

Donnan was trying to work a rope over the horse’s head, soothing it with pets and soft words. He almost had it made when the old man on the hay bail thrashed awake with a cry.

The horse whinnied and reared back.

Donnan swore and vaulted over the fence, trailing a length of rope.

The old man scrubbed a hand over his face, accidentally dislodging his pipe. When he saw Donnan and John, he burst into an angry stream of Gaelic. Donnan stormed over to him, hands waving, and shouted back. The man flung a hand in John’s direction, then at the horse, which was snorting and stomping and tossing its head because the rope was still flung across the back of its neck.

Donnan put his hands on the old man’s shoulders, spoke to him firmly. The old man blinked, confused. Donnan pressed a small metal flask into the old man’s hand, and the old man accepted it, drank from it. His hands shook, and he drank again. His hands were steadier when he handed the flask back. Voice as soft and gentle as when he’d spoken to the horse, Donnan guided the old man back to his hay bale. The old man sank down, and Donnan picked up his fallen pipe, dusted it off. He handed it to the man, along with a pinch of tobacco from his sporran, and the old man lit up. He puffed a couple of times, expression contented.

Donnan dusted off his hands and joined John at the corral fence. He sighed. “All my work, undone.”

“Was he upset to see me?” John asked.

“No. He forgot where he was for a moment is all.” 

John studied the horse, who’d finally managed to dislodge the rope and had stomped on it a few times for good measure. “Would you like a hand?”

“You said you’ve never broken a horse.”

“No, but I can comb a horse pretty well.”

Donnan eyed him. “You? With your soft hands? Comb a horse?”

“Yes.”

Donnan studied the horse, who studied him right back. Then Donnan nodded at the two colts who’d been startled by the old man’s rude awakening. “Start with them. Leave me with this wild one.”

John nodded. “All right. Where are the brushes?”

Donnan showed him where all the grooming equipment was kept, as well as where the little pile of dried apples was stashed. The plan was simple - bribe each colt with a dried apple, comb them down. The work was rhythmic, soothing, mindless. Maybe, once John got back to his own time, he could work with horses. Forget the family business. Dad still owned a few horses, mostly for Dave’s girls to ride. John could work in the stables. Dad would be appalled, but John would be happy. Could be happy.

Donnan snagged a couple of dried apples and climbed into the corral once more, hand outstretched, apple on his palm. It took him much longer to lure the horse close, calm it down enough that it didn’t balk when he started to work a loop of rope over its head. 

John lost himself in his work, talking softly to the colts - would it confuse them, him speaking English to them when everyone else would speak Gaelic? - and was drawn out of the meditative rhythm of combing and currying when Katie called out.

Her voice startled Donnan’s horse once more, and he vaulted over the corral fence with a cry.

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” Katie froze, pressed a hand to her mouth. She had a basket on one arm.

Donnan rounded on her, paused, really looked at her. “Och, leave it. You couldnae have known. This lad has a stubborn streak anyway. Won’t be easy to break.” Then he frowned. “Should you be out here without a chaperone?”

“I’m bringing you lunch.” Katie hefted the basket, strode toward them. “And I brought enough for Old Hamish.” She nodded at the old man on the hay bale who was half puffing on his pipe, half nodding off to sleep. “So, between yourself and Old Hamish, I am chaperoned and then some.”

Donnan’s reaction was almost Pavlovian at the mention of food. He perked up, beckoned Katie closer, kicked some dirty straw aside, accepted the blanket she held out and spread it on the ground so they had space to sit. Katie knelt at one corner of the blanket and laid out food - bread, cheese, dried meats, apples. She tore off some bread and broke off a piece of cheese and gave them to Old Hamish, and then she joined John and Donnan on the blanket.

John made sure she served herself first, lest Donnan eat everything, and then let Donnan have the lion’s share of what was left, because he was a growing boy. 

“I just wanted to thank the both of you,” Katie said. “For defending me during the Hearings.”

Donnan shrugged. “It was the truth, wasn’t it?”

“You sang well,” John added. 

“Although I suspect the person who deserves your thanks the most is Rodney, aye?” Donnan waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Katie blushed. “I have spoken to Rodney and expressed my gratitude appropriately.”

“With a chaperone?” Donnan asked.

John nudged him. “Don’t make trouble for her again.”

Donnan immediately ducked his head, apologetic. “Sorry, Katie.”

“It’s fine. I just - I remember Rodney, from when he first visited the castle, and he was very kind to me.”

Donnan raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Rodney had never struck John as someone who people would describe as  _ very kind, _ but then who knew what he’d been like before everything happened with Black Bill? Perhaps Evan. Although Evan didn’t seem to think Rodney’s temperament was at all unusual.

“I was so pleased to see him again,” Katie continued, “when he returned three years ago. Sometimes he goes away on errands for Himself, but he always comes back. He would make a good husband, I know it. If only I could show him the truth.”

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an extended conversation with a woman about anything remotely like this. Hadn’t the genders been pretty socially segregated back in the day? Only John had done this to himself, agreeing to teach her a song so she could attempt to woo Rodney.

Katie nibbled delicately at her bread and cheese. Donnan used his  _ sgian-dubh  _ to peel his apple. John wasn’t sure what to say. The food was good, though, and he thanked Katie. The fact that he hadn’t been laid out sick to his stomach told him that the food was better than he’d thought it would be. Or maybe being sent into the past was punishment enough and the magic of time travel had just hand-waved his usual travel sickness. 

Assuming it was magic that had transported him back. It could have been science. Airplanes had been science fiction to Leonardo Da Vinci. Time travel had, up to the moment John woke up in the eighteenth century, also been science fiction.

If magic was real - no.

“John, you were married once,” Katie said, dragging John out of his musings.

“Yes, I was,” he said, not liking where this was going even though he wasn’t sure where exactly it was going.

“What does a man look for in a wife?” Katie leaned in, expression earnest.

Donnan looked interested as well.

John felt cornered. “I - I guess I was like Rodney. Didn’t think anyone would want to marry me.”

“But someone did,” Donnan prodded. “What was she like, Mrs. Lee?”

“If it’s not too painful,” Katie added.

John swallowed. “Nancy was - smart. So smart. Smarter than me. Beautiful, of course.”

“And a good housekeeper, of course,” Katie said. “Was she especially skilled at sewing?”

John bit back laughter, because Nancy had been skilled at many things - managing finances, making witnesses cry on cross-examination, maneuvering the political waters in DC - but sewing and cooking weren’t among them. “She was a beautiful singer.” That was true.

He cleared his throat and steered the conversation toward Katie’s family, and wee Helen, who was still coughing. They finished the food, and Donnan was polite, helped Katie pack up her basket, and then she headed back to the castle while Donnan made one more good run at breaking his horse and John continued to look after the colts. By the time Donnan was ready to call it a day, he’d managed to lasso the horse three times, each time with less coaxing required. Old Hamish had fallen asleep after he’d eaten his food, and Donnan was kind enough to cover him with a blanket before he and John headed back to the castle.

Down in the surgery, they took turns washing up after spending all day under the sun and in the company of the horses. Then they headed up to supper, found their places at their usual table with Evan. Rodney was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Katie. Evan, as it turned out, had spent most of the day in the smithy acting as mediator between Rodney and his apprentice, and his patience was worn thin. He said little. Apparently whatever was being served that night was Donnan’s favorite, so he tucked in enthusiastically and also said little. Their reticence gave John the chance to study the head table. Lady Amelia had a woman seated beside her that John didn’t recognize, and they were conversing cheerfully. Himself was drinking lots of wine and staring into the distance, silent, expression carefully blank. Cameron was bolting down his food like there was no tomorrow. He finished before anyone else, leaned over to his brother, whispered.

The Mitchell waved a hand, and Cameron stood, bowed to Lady Amelia - never quite meeting her gaze - and then hurried out of the hall.

John finished eating before Donnan, but he wasn’t feeling so irritated with Cameron that he’d deprive Donnan of food, so he continued pushing unidentified vegetables in brown sauce around his plate until Donnan had eaten his fill.

Even though they’d washed up for supper, Donnan wanted to go out and check on the colts and the new horse one more time. Once he finished, John summoned a maid to take their plates with a wave of his hand, and they made their excuses to their dining partners. Evan nodded distractedly, and they headed for the door.

“Do we want to get heavier coats?” John asked. “The sun goes down earlier here.”

Donnan paused, considering. “No, I’ll be fine. Unless you’re delicate, like Rodney? I’ve a sturdier coat in my room if you like.”

“No, I’m not delicate,” John said, though he’d spent more of his life in temperate or desert climates than in cold climates. “Just - you. You’re thin. Don’t have a lot of insulation on those bones.”

“Insulation?” Donnan tested the word.

“Yes,” John said. “It’s a substance that you wrap around something or inside something to keep the temperature inside from changing. Like a blanket.”

Donnan poked himself in the ribs experimentally. “You mean people who are fat are less cold in the winter?”

“As a general rule,” John said, hedging, because things like circulation played a lot into someone’s personal sense of temperature.

“I keep telling Mrs. Fraiser I need to eat more. I’ll freeze to death this winter if I’m not fatter.” Donnan nodded decisively.

Janet swatted him on the shoulder. “Och, you’ll do no such thing.” 

Donnan affected a wounded pout, but Janet was already addressing herself to John. She handed him a piece of folded plaid and a cap. “Campbell tartan, as you please.”

“Oh, thank you.” John accepted it, smiled at Janet. “Donnan, let me go change.”

“I expect you’ll be needing my help.” Donnan rolled his eyes at Janet. “You’re utterly hopeless at properly folding your plaid.”

Janet patted John on the shoulder, and then he and Donnan hurried through the kitchen and down the stairs to the surgery. John shucked the McKay plaid and set about folding it neatly. He’d give it back to Evan or Rodney, whoever he saw first. Donnan folded the plaid with deft hands, and then John lay on it, belted it on. He was getting faster at it, better at it, didn’t need so much adjusting once he stood up. 

“There, you are a proper Campbell man.” Donnan dusted John’s shoulders off ostentatiously. “Your mam would be proud, and you can be proud of yourself when you see your kin.”

“Thanks.” John gathered up the McKay plaid, tucked it under one arm, and then tugged on the little cap Janet had given him. It was a tam, like the kind Rodney and Cameron wore. It would keep him a little warmer when he and Donnan were out after dark. “Now, back to the horses?”

“Aye.” Donnan scampered up the stairs ahead of him. “You’re a fair hand with a curry brush, John Lee.”

“My father had horses.”

“For a man with such soft hands, you’re a hard worker.” Donnan cast a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

“Yes, I realize my hands are soft compared to yours, but I’m not actually lazy.” John rolled his eyes.

“If you wanted to stay, I’m sure Himself would welcome it.”

“I’m sure he would,” John murmured. Louder, he said, “My brother is worried about me, I’m sure. And I’m worried about him.”

They cut through the kitchens and out into the courtyard, heading for the stables. They went to cut through the stables, which were warmer than the sharp chill of the open courtyard, when John saw Evan heading into a side door.

“Hey, I need to give this plaid back to Evan.” John pointed.

Donnan nodded. “Aye. I’ll meet you in the stables.” 

“All right. I’ll be fast.” And John trotted toward the door he’d seen Evan go into. Inside, the stone corridor was dim. Evan was moving swiftly toward the far end of the corridor and a flight of stairs. John hurried after him.

For a guy as short as Evan was, he moved fast.

John went to call out to him, but movement from the corner of his eye startled him. He turned and saw - Rodney. Tucked into a shadowy alcove. Almost invisible, except somehow John knew the shape of his jaw, the curl of his hair, the line of his mouth as he smiled. He was leaning in to kiss - another man. Not one John recognized, but a man with dark hair and a stubbled chin.

John froze.

Poor Katie had never had a chance.

And then John jolted himself back into action. It wasn’t his first time, stumbling across a forbidden tryst. More than once he’d turned a blind eye to some  _ don’t ask don’t tell _ action, because he hadn’t asked, and as far as he was concerned, no one had told. Sometimes he’d take a young airman aside, warn him to be more discreet, but -

Not his business. Not here. What would get a man a dishonorable discharge at best and a savage beating at worst could get a man killed here.

John walked past as quickly and quietly as possible, headed for the stairs. He glimpsed a flash of fabric as someone rounded the staircase heading upward.

“Evan?”

“John?” Evan trotted down the stairs.

John smiled, held out the folded plaid. “I was just returning this. Since I leave tomorrow, I thought I’d better get something of my own to wear.”

Evan raised his eyebrows. “Is that Campbell tartan you’re wearing?”

“Janet - Mrs. Fraiser - found it for me.” John didn’t mention knowing Rodney was really a McKay.

“That’s good.” Evan smiled, accepted the fabric. 

“Listen, have you seen Rodney?”

Evan’s expression turned shifty. “No, not recently. Why?”

“I don’t usually see him during the day, only at dinner, and today I didn’t see him at dinner, and I wanted to say goodbye. In case I don’t see him before I leave tomorrow.”

“Oh. That’s very kind of you. I don’t know where he is.” Evan’s expression went from shifty to innocent quickly enough that most people likely didn’t notice the shifty look. “I’ll pass your farewells on to him.”

“Thanks. And remind him to get his shoulder and his stitches checked.”

“Aye. I will.”

“Thanks for everything, Evan.” John shook his hand. “Godspeed and good hunting.”

“Godspeed,” Evan echoed. Then he frowned. “Where’s Donnan?”

“Waiting for me in the stables. We were going to go out and check on the colts some more.”

“Of course. Donnan’s a good hand with an unbroken colt. Fare thee well, John Lee.”

“And you, Evan Lorne.” John turned and headed back down the stairs. He marched right past the alcove where Rodney and his paramour had been - and very carefully didn’t turn to look at them - and headed on out to the stables, where Donnan was attempting to flirt with one of the hostler’s daughters.

John caught the end of Donnan’s long braid, tugged lightly. “Come on. Before the horses go to sleep.”

Donnan made a protesting sound but allowed himself to be led away. He fell into step beside John, and they walked, shoulder-to-shoulder against the chill, out to the corral.

“I haven’t seen anyone else wear their hair like yours,” John said to Donnan.

He reached up, ran a hand over his hair, the gesture a little self-conscious. “’Tis a Maxwell tradition. During times of peace, we grow our hair long. A soldier cannae have long hair. But when war is upon us -” He made a sharp cutting gesture.

Donnan’s braid reached to his waist.

“So you’ve had peace for most of your life.”

“Aye, most.” Donnan eyed John. “And you, your hair - is it very American?”

John glanced upward toward his own hairline. “My hair’s always been - unruly. It is what it is. Can’t do much about it. Either I grow it long and look like an idiot, or - this. I mean, you look fine with long hair. I...don’t.”

“What are girls like in America? Are they pretty?”

“There are some pretty girls,” John said. “But the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen are Persian.”

“You’ve been to Persia?”

“Not to the heart of Persia, but I’ve been - in that region before.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Tell me about the Persian girls.”

“There was this woman. Her name was Kalila. She was a medic, like me. But also a dancer.”

John talked, and they walked, and they checked over the horses, and then they trudged back to the castle with little more than moonlight to guide them.

Donnan curled up on his cot and fell asleep as soon as they reached the surgery, leaving John to perform his evening ablutions before he stoked the fire and crawled into bed.

But he couldn’t sleep, kept picturing Rodney in that shadowy alcove with that strange man. 

No. Not his business. He was leaving tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I know you've been burned by my WiPs before. I'm trying to turn over a new leaf, okay? Okay.
> 
> Also I never read the Outlander books, just watched the first couple of seasons of the show.


End file.
